


in the family of things

by Sibilant



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Community: tdkr-kink, Developing Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 82,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're saying there's work in the tunnels of Gotham. But one boy has already turned up dead. John isn't going to let that happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ongoing WIP based around the AU premise: "What if John never became a police officer? What if he went down to the sewers when Bane was building his army?" Originally posted [here](http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/2798.html?thread=2233838#t2233838) on the TDKR Kink Meme (where you can read the full prompt as well).
> 
> WARNING: This fic makes references to child abuse (physical and sexual) throughout; nothing is detailed explicitly, but please be warned.
> 
> Rated E for (eventual) explicit content between consenting adults.

Morning shift ends at 3pm and John’s the first to reach the time clock, magnetic card already out. By his estimate, he’s only got fifteen minutes before the bus arrives to find and talk to Selby, the production shift manager. And that’s if he runs for the bus straight afterwards. He looks around, trying to pick out Selby’s squat figure amongst all the workers. His rush to swipe out doesn’t go unnoticed; usually, he’s one of the last workers to leave the floor.  
  
“You’re eager to get out,” Avery – one of the forklift operators – says slyly, “got a cute young thing waiting for you tonight, John?”  
  
“Yup. All five of them,” John says, distracted.  
  
That brings on the predictable jeering ( _“Yeah, all five fingers and your palm, maybe!”_ ) from the workers nearby; it makes John grin, but he doesn’t dawdle today to trade shit talk. He's just spotted Selby, not on the floor but standing near the manager’s office, talking to some suits. OSHA, probably. John flips off the morning shift guys with an easy smile and jogs toward Selby.  
  
“Mr Selby?” he calls out. He slows down as he gets closer. Selby isn’t talking to OSHA like John had thought. He’s with the factory manager and some guys John hasn’t seen at the factory before. Corporate – and high up too, judging by the fine fit of their suits. They stand out like jewels in a pig’s ear in the middle of the factory.  
  
“In a minute, Blake,” Selby waves him aside, not unkindly. The factory manager and the suits keep on talking as if John hadn't interrupted.  
  
Typical.  
  
John waits, fidgeting impatiently, as Selby finishes his conversation with the higher-ups, then sees them out. It seems to take forever. The corporate stiffs breeze by, looking past John like he’s beneath their notice; John has to quell his urge to sneer at them.  
  
“What is it?” Selby says when he returns. He doesn’t stop walking, checking things off on a clipboard as he goes, so John has no choice but to pivot on his heel and follow him back into the factory, swept along in Selby’s wake. He almost has to skip to keep up. John’s heard some of the other workers joke about how quickly Selby can get around for such a large guy ( _“It’s like the guy just appears out of fat air!”_ ).  
  
But Selby’s not fat, not really. He’s burly, in his late forties, built like a worn out bulldog with the bluntness to match. But he’s a good manager. Fair. He’s never cheated John, and John – in turn – has never cheated him. John works hard, makes sure he does his job right, no matter how menial the task. And he always talks straight with Selby.  
  
“I wanted to know if you’d thought about my request to convert to permanent part-time,” John says.

Selby grunts. “I figured that’s what this’d be about.”  
  
When nothing else follows, John says cautiously, “And… have you, sir?”  
  
Selby stops so suddenly that John almost walks into him. They’re standing by the loading bays. No one is currently nearby as morning shift swaps with the swing shift. “Y’know who those guys were, Blake?” he says conversationally, jerking a thumb in the direction the suits had departed.  
  
“Corporate?”  
  
Selby grunts again. “Corporate’s right,” he says, “HR, to be exact.”  
  
John’s shoulders tense. Selby hadn’t said ‘HR’ like it was a good thing. “Checking to see if we deserve Christmas bonuses six months early?” he jokes weakly.  
  
Selby snorts then sighs, slapping his clipboard against his thigh. “You may as well know now,” he says, peering at John from beneath lowered brows. The tension in John’s shoulders ratchets up. “Word has come down from upper management. Wayne Enterprises is slimming down its electronics division. The factories in Otisburg and Bayside are going to be shut down completely. The factories here in Burnley aren’t, but we’re going to have to downsize.” He looks away before adding: “I’m sorry.”  
  
John’s stomach plummets but he keeps his face still. Well. He knows how downsizing works in this part of town – last hired, first fired. John’s only been here four months. But a part of him still has to ask: “Will you keep me on, sir? I’m a good worker; you said so, when I first asked you about switching to part-time.”  
  
It’s as close as he can bring himself to begging.  
  
Selby’s grizzled face is sympathetic. “You are, Blake. But there’re a lot of workers here. A lot of them with families,” he winces, as if realising that hadn’t come out right, and hurries on, “a lot of them have been working here for decades; their opportunities for re-employment aren’t as good as--”  
  
“I get it, sir,” John cuts him off. And he does. A fifty-something factory worker has even less chance of finding work than John – twenty-four, high school diploma by GED, work history lined with temp jobs – does.  
  
But the part of him that asked Selby to keep him on wants to scream out, _Well, fuck them! They’ve got kids to look after? I’ve got a whole building full of kids in the East End who_ need _me. How can I help them if I can’t even fucking feed myself?_  
  
But he doesn’t. It wouldn’t make sense to Selby and what good would it do anyway?  
  
Selby lifts his hand, like he’s going to- to pat John on the _shoulder_ or something, then thinks better of it and lets his hand drop. “You've still got a couple more weeks here. And you’ll get another job soon enough,” he says awkwardly, “you’re quick and you work hard. You’ll land on your feet. And I’m sure HR will arrange some sort of outplacement service--”  
  
But John doesn’t want to get into that, not right now, and says instead: “This factory makes parts for Wayne Electronics. Since when does Wayne Enterprises downsize?”  
  
Selby makes a ‘tch’ sound of disgust. “Since Bruce Wayne started bleeding money like a haemophiliac.”

 

* * *

  
After all that, John misses the bus anyway.  



	2. Chapter 2

The thing is, John really does have five cute young things waiting for him today.  
  
They’re aged between ten and sixteen. And they’re all waiting on him to teach them the finer points of pool.  
  
It may not be a harem of co-eds in his bed, but still. Five cute young things.

 

* * *

  
He gets off the bus three blocks down from St. Swithin’s and immediately launches into a run. He’s late, but not _too_ late. Maybe. Hopefully.  
  
He hadn’t been able to call ahead and let Father Reilly know. No spare cash for his prepaid phone. The decision had always come down to something like buying more toothpaste or toilet paper versus his cell, and John would rather be able to wipe his ass comfortably than send a text.  
  
Right now, though? He really wishes he’d just steeled himself to use newspaper for a few days. He just hopes Father Reilly had realised in time and managed to corral the boys back inside before they took off to God knows where, to do God knows what.  
  
But when he reaches the battered entrance of St. Swithin’s, he sees not the expected five, but _three_ kids waiting for him on the step. Father Reilly stands with them, face twisted into a frown. John’s stomach drops for the second time today but, this time, it’s worse. The boys leap up with cries of “John!” as soon as he’s in range. Jimmy and Emilio, the two eldest boys, are nowhere to be seen. Luca, Mark and Tim, for their part, mob around him, grab excitedly at his arms and jacket, talking a mile a minute and all at once.  
  
“What the fuck?” John finally says.  
  
It encompasses a lot of things, but “what the fuck, where are Jimmy and Emilio?” and “what the fuck, I can’t understand what you’re saying when you’re all talking at once” are the biggest contenders.  
  
“John,” Father Reilly chides.  
  
Right, right. The swearing. In John’s defence, he doesn’t slip up _that_ often. But he’s got his own rules about swearing that he enforces when Father Reilly isn’t around. Swearing's fine, but no racial slurs. No swearing at one another or other people. He won’t have his kids growing up thinking it’s okay to bully or trash-talk, for all that he’ll let it slide if they declare that the entire world is a ‘flaming ball of shit’ (Luca, age eleven).  
  
John wants to say a lot more than “what the fuck?” though, as he surveys his remaining three. He turns to Father Reilly in wordless appeal.  
  
Father Reilly shrugs helplessly. “Jimmy and Emilio waited for about an hour and a half after they came back from school. Then they took off; said you weren’t coming.”  
  
There’s no accusation in his voice at all, but John feels stung anyway. He knows Jimmy and Emilio have been getting harder to handle, angry and anxious as they creep closer to being aged out. It’s why he didn’t want to be fucking _late_ today and his frustration, always a low grade burn in his chest, spikes up.  
  
“Where’d they go?”  
  
Small sigh from Father Reilly. “They didn’t say. But--” and here he casts a significant glance at the three boys.  
  
So it’s like that, is it? “Guys, go wait in the rec room for me,” John says, “I need to talk to Father Reilly for a sec.”  
  
They obey without question, footfalls squeaking and thundering as they go through the foyer. Father Reilly watches them go with a small, disbelieving smile. “You know they almost made one of the new volunteers cry yesterday? Just by doing the exact opposite of anything she suggested. Poor girl was so flustered. I think they made a game out of it.”  
  
John rolls his eyes as he follows Father Reilly into his broom closet of an office. He can well believe it. He’ll have to have a word with them about that. He waits until Father Reilly shuts the door before saying: “What’s going on?”  
  
Father Reilly pinches the bridge of his nose. The slump of his shoulders makes him look so much smaller. “I think some of the boys have gone missing.”

“What do you mean? How can you only _think_ someone's gone missing?”

“I don’t know for sure if they have. They’re all…” Father Reilly gives him a helpless look. “They were all aged out. But I can usually keep tabs on the ones who age out, even if it’s just for a couple of months. But some of the boys lately… I haven’t heard a thing about them. And now Jimmy and Emilio are gone.”  
  
“I thought you said they took off just this afternoon.”  
  
“They did. But they’ve been disappearing on and off for weeks now. I got word from their school that they’ve been truanting. And I spotted Emilio with a wad of cash the other day. There’s something going on. Maybe gangbangers are recruiting.”  
  
John almost laughs. Father Reilly’s been watching too much _Law & Order_. Gangbangers? Not likely. The GPD crackdown on organised crime had left even the low level street gangs in disarray. But predators? Sick fucks that’d pay out the nose or do worse to get some teenage ass? Yeah. They’re still around.  
  
“Goddamn it,” John mutters, wiping a hand over his face. “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”  
  
Father Reilly’s face is earnest. “You’ve got enough to be dealing with, John. You volunteer so much time here already, I didn’t want to burden you with more. There’s not much more you can do, anyway. I’ve filed so many missing person reports, East End PD’s probably sick at the sight of me.”  
  
“Yeah, but--” But what? _They’re_ my _kids,_ John wants to say, even though he knows it sounds ridiculous. They are, though. He knows it, like he knows his own name.  
  
John thinks quickly. Father Reilly hadn’t mentioned asking the boys if they knew anything about the disappearances. Probably didn’t want to alarm the younger kids about what might happen to them if they’re aged out. He’s good like that, although some of the boys take advantage of his kindness.  
  
Coming to a decision, John says, “I’ve gotta take the boys to the pool hall or they’ll probably set fire to something out of boredom. We’ll keep an eye out for Jimmy and Emilio, they wouldn’t have gone far. Emilio hates walking and they won’t catch the bus or the subway; it’ll cost them money.”  
  
Doesn’t mean they won’t try fare beating.  
  
Father Reilly quirks an eyebrow at him, as if he’s thinking the exact same thing, but merely bids him farewell. John rounds the boys up and marches them toward the pool hall. They’ve got some explaining to do.

 

* * *

  
The pool hall is dark, lit only by spotlights over the pool tables. There’s no external lighting other than what comes in through the roll-up door, since the pool hall is sandwiched between two warehouses. The air smells of stale smoke, fried food and chalk dust. All the St. Swithin’s boys love it, although George, the proprietor, doesn’t like having all the boys in all at once. He hovers over the till when large groups of them are there, finds excuses to be standing near the boys so he can keep an eye on them. It pisses John off, even though he understands on one level. So he brings small groups in at a time.  
  
John ushers the boys in but doesn’t take them to the counter to rent a table. Instead, he directs them to the dinky corner that acts as a café, points at a vacant table with four seats around it. This part of the pool hall stinks badly of fry oil.  
  
“Sit. I need to talk to you guys for a minute.”  
  
Luca, Mark and Tim obey, although their faces are wary.  
  
John flips the last chair around and straddles it, resting his arms along the back. “Father Reilly says you’ve been giving some of the volunteers a hard time.”  
  
Three faces relax. So they’d assumed he was going to talk to them about something _else_. John likes being right. He mulls over how to best broach the issue of Jimmy and Emilio without seeming like he’s interrogating them.  
  
“We can’t help it,” Tim says, apropos the volunteers. “They’re fucking annoying. All one of them wanted to do was talk to me about _God_.” John wants to smile. Tim’s an atheist in the making. Though with the life he had before he came to St. Swithin’s, John can hardly blame him for not believing in God.  
  
“The home _is_ run by the Church,” John points out.  
  
“So? Don’t mean I wanna hear about it.”

“Fair enough. But no more torturing the volunteers. They’re not that bad and it’s pretty rare nowadays that anyone gives a crap about us.” ‘Us’, not ‘you’. Even though he hasn’t lived at St. Swithin’s for years now, John will always be one of them.  
  
“Fine,” Tim huffs. “Don’t know why it’s such a big deal. If they can’t handle it, they shouldn’t be working with kids. _You_ think it’s funny when we give you shit.”  
  
“Correction: I don’t put up with your shit.”  
  
“Whatever. You think it’s funny, we know you do,” is Luca’s contribution.  
  
John smiles, although it drops off quickly. Mark has remained silent entire time. Not a good sign. Normally, he’d just ask Mark outright about what’s going on – he’s a quiet kid who desperately wants to be thought of as good – but Jimmy is Mark’s brother. John’s heard Mark spin castles in the sky the minute he thinks Jimmy needs protecting.  
  
Keeping his voice light, John says, “When I hit seventeen, I had… no clue what I was going to do next. Get a job, obviously. No way was I getting into college. I had some cash saved up from working odd jobs, but nothing big. It’s probably worse now. The home can’t keep on kids after they age out since Bruce Wayne's... I dunno, lost his mind or something.” It still hurts a little to talk about his childhood idol like that, although the bitterness outweighs the hurt.  
  
“It took me ages to get a job that lasted more than a month or two...” and here John has to take a deep breath. Here it goes: “I even thought about doing some shady shit to make fast money.”  
  
(Blatant lie. He’d _definitely_ done some shady shit to make fast money.)  
  
The boys, who’d grown warier as he kept talking, shut down at that last part. It’s like watching three trucks in reverse. Then they turn on crocodile tears. They’re no fools.  
  
“Why you talking like this?” Luca says, although John thinks his upset is a little too vehement to be real. “We don’t wanna talk about aging out. Where you going with this, John?”  
  
It doesn’t matter. He’s blown it. John backs off immediately. “Nowhere. I’m just… in a weird mood, I guess. Work was crap today.”  
  
He goes to the counter and rents a pool table. Spends the rest of the time teaching the boys trick shots that they probably won’t be able to master fully until they grow at least a foot taller. Acts like there’s nothing wrong. The boys eagerly take part in the charade, although John has no doubt they’ll react like feral cats if he even tries to bring up Jimmy or Emilio.  
  
They stay there until it grows dark and George starts looking nervous about having them there. Then John ushers them back out into the dark of Gotham’s streets.

 

* * *

  
Five days later, John gets a call from Father Reilly. It’s close to midnight.  
  
“It’s Jimmy,” Father Reilly says, voice heavy. He sounds older than John’s ever heard him. “The cops found him this evening by the sewers. He’s dead, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: References to under-age prostitution

John’s mind is a roar of white noise.

He doesn’t say anything for one, two, three breaths. Then: “How?”

“Cops said a water treatment worker found him washed up against a storm water grille. The ME hasn’t typed up his official report yet, but the cops say it looks like he drowned.”

Drowned? What? How would Jimmy even— John breaks off that useless train of thought. “Does Mark know yet?”

“I didn’t want to wake him. It’s nearly midnight.” Father Reilly’s voice is thready. John knows much he believes in his work. How personally he takes it when things don’t go right. John’s not the only one who won’t be sleeping tonight.

“Right. Of course. Jesus,” John breathes deeply, cradles his head in his hand. “Can I… do you mind if I’m the one to tell him tomorrow? He’s already going to know something’s up when you don’t send him to school.”

John has no idea if Mark will take the news any better hearing it from him.

He has no idea what he’s going to say.

 

* * *

 

Mark takes the news better _and_ worse than John had hoped.

His only response when John finishes talking is to nod. He doesn’t cry, although he slides closer to John, leans up against John’s side and rests his cheek against his shoulder. John doesn’t put an arm around him. Mark is a guarded kid, wields his personal space like a force field. He wouldn’t appreciate John acknowledging he’d let his guard down, even for the purpose of comfort.

_He seems so vulnerable now._

The thought strikes John suddenly. He feels heartless for even considering taking advantage, but now might be the only time he can talk to Mark about it before Mark goes complete shut-mouthed. Protecting his brother, even now.

“The cops said the DWP guys pulled him out of a catchment basin,” he says, as gently as he can. “Do you know why Jimmy’d be down in the tunnels?”

Mark is quiet for a moment, fiddling with a stick of chalk. Then: “A lot of the guys’ve been going down there. Say you can live down there. They say there’s work down there.” He doesn’t look at John.

John blinks. “What kind of work can you find in the sewers?”

Mark gives a one-shouldered shrug. “More than you can find up here, I guess.”

John – two weeks away from joining the ranks of the unemployed – finds he can’t argue with that. He looks down at what Mark is scribbling on the benches. It makes his breath catch in his throat unexpectedly.

Little bats. _The_ Bat.

He remembers drawing them, when he’d been even older than Mark. Over and over, little totems of protection to ward off the encroaching darkness. People had drawn them everywhere. Prayers to a saviour from the little people, who didn’t believe they’d be saved by any higher power. The cops couldn’t (or, more often, wouldn’t) keep them safe. But Batman could.

He’d believed with all the blind faith of a child.

His mouth thins at the memory and he looks away from Mark’s scribbles. He knows better these days.

You put your faith in nothing but yourself and those you call your own.

Heroes only let you down in the end.

 

* * *

 

The idea comes to John in bits and pieces, over the next few days, as he works at the factory. He focuses on the plan to the exclusion of everything else. It helps him ignore the pitying (or relieved) glances of the other workers. And it’s better than brooding over Jimmy.

 _(The thoughts chase themselves around in his head anyway. Late at night, when he’s trying to sleep. Why, why, why hadn’t he offered his apartment as a place for Jimmy to stay when he aged out? Maybe Jimmy wouldn’t have been so desperate he’d go to the_ sewers _to live. Why hadn’t John thought of that sooner? Why is he so goddamned stupid?_

_John doesn’t sleep well those nights.)_

Mark said boys were going down into the sewers for work. John doubts they’re working for the Department of Water and Power. And they’d been _so_ secretive about it. You’re not secretive about legit work. He’d thought wildly – just for a moment – that maybe there was some criminal mastermind down there in the vein of Fagin, training up an army of Artful Dodgers. But no. Pick pocketing and petty theft isn’t on the rise or else he would’ve heard the boys complaining about being shaken down by the cops.

John’s pretty sure his initial suspicions were correct. There’s only one trade in Gotham that doesn’t change, no matter how hard the cops crack down on gangs.

Pimps don’t need big gangs to run a stable of rent boys, after all.

The minute John thinks it, he wants to fucking kill someone. He knows desperate you can get on the street. Desperate enough that you can rationalise getting on your knees and opening your mouth or turning around and dropping your pants. It doesn’t seem so bad, not when it’ll get you enough cash for a hot meal. He hadn’t wanted any of the boys to know that kind of desperation. The knowledge of his failure is bitter-sour in his mouth.

The plan John comes up with is this: pose as a guy looking to turn tricks. If there is a pimp making his money in rent boys, he’ll find John quickly. The boys in his stable will probably even tell him where to find John; they’ve got to make quota and they won’t appreciate anyone taking away potential customers. John’s pretty sure he’s good-looking enough that a pimp won’t just kill him. And when he gets into the stable… well. John’s got no illusions. If he ends up in a stable, he’s not getting out. But at least he’ll be there to protect the kids as best as he’s able.

It’s not the best plan. It’s terrible, if John’s honest. But it’s the only plan he’s got.

 

* * *

 

It’s not just a terrible plan, it’s the worst plan. The absolute fucking worst.

John’s been trawling the streets for three nights now, jumpy as fuck that someone he knows is going to see him attempting to turn tricks and report him to the police. Or worse, try to solicit him.

But no one’s come after John. Not of the pimp variety, anyway. He has gotten seventeen johns (hah) attempt to solicit him for sex. He’d led them into an alley each time for verisimilitude, then knocked them out cold. He’s not proud of it, but he refuses to actually get on his knees for cash. Those days are behind him (for now). To appease his guilt, he’d called 911 for each guy and watched from a safe distance until the ambulance arrived to make sure they were okay.

He stamps his feet on the sidewalk and tries to figure out what he's going to do next. What else can he do? Jump down a manhole and start walking?

For lack of anything better to do, John starts people watching. The owners of the Korean deli seem to be bickering as they close up shop. They eye him suspiciously as he stares, snapping at one another all the while; a kid – barely eighteen – bustles down the street, hands wrapped securely around the straps of his backpack. College kid; a tall brunette stalks into the dive bar across the road, towing her drunken boyfriend along. The guy looks disgusting, dressed in a stained Hawaiian shirt, stringy haired and unshaven.

 _Jesus,_ John thinks, _talk about punching above your weight._

He’s just decided to give up for the night when the frantic wail of police sirens cuts through the night. They’re close by and there are lots of them. He stops, perversely interested despite himself. There hasn’t been action like this in Gotham for years.

Squad cars and – _holy shit_ – SWAT vans come to a screeching halt in front of the dive bar. Cops and black suited SWAT units burst out, a coordinated tide ramming down the bar door. John practically collides with the Korean deli store owners as they rush to get a better view past all the vehicles.

There’s a deafening rapport of gunfire. SWAT teams shouting. A woman screams, high and long.

John dives for cover instinctively, hands over his ears, heart hammering. There hasn’t been gunfire like _that_ in Gotham for years either. He backs awkwardly away, keeping his hands over his ears. It’s only once he’s well past the cop cars that he risks uncovering them. His hearing’s a little messed up from the gunfire, but he can hear someone barking orders back down the road; the sound carries easily in the clear night.

“Manhole!” a pause, then: “You three, down with me. You two, head to cover the next exit. Get the DWP down here, now!”

Manhole? DWP? _They’re going into the sewers._

John gets to his feet and runs back. When he’s directly across from the alley, gunfire erupts again, echoing not in the street or the bar but from further down. Shit, there’s actually something _down_ there—

John looks around wildly. Running on instinct now. SWAT covers the alley entrance on that side, but the alley behind him… yes.

_There._

John runs to the manhole and jams his fingers into its small openings. Levers the cover up and away with a clang. He doesn’t give a shit if the sound gives him away. SWAT can’t force him out if he’s already down there.

Once the manhole’s open, though, John hesitates. Stares at the ladder with trepidation.

Then he thinks: the boys could be down there.

John lowers himself into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

_Correction,_ John thinks. This _is the worst plan._

He lands with a splash, ends up soaked to the ankles. He can’t see more than a few feet in front of him. The safety lanterns barely penetrate the gloom. The air smells stale, although not as bad as he’d assumed from repeat viewings of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

His breathing is incredibly loud in the darkness.

Gunfire erupts somewhere ahead of him; John flattens himself against the wall. He can hear screams, cut off abruptly. John feels sick. It sounds even worse in the tunnels than it did above ground. The echoes sound like they could be coming from all around.

He hesitates only for a moment then heads in the direction of gunfire. He ignores the part of his brain screaming in terror. He wants to be wherever the cops are heading. After all, you can be self-preserving or you can results. John’s already screwed himself out of the former by jumping down the manhole.

May as well get results.

He gets no more than a few feet when an explosion booms, shaking the tunnel, and fire races toward him. He cries out, throwing himself down into the water. The heat pushes ahead of the fire, rushes over him. It scorches the hairs on his arms, brings a horrible smell of burned polyester out from his shirt.

The fireball dissipates before it reaches him fully, but it still takes John three tries before he successfully gets to his feet. He’s trembling. He’s sure all his blood’s been replaced with adrenaline and fear. _God_. What is he _doing_ down here?

There’s the sound of splashing. John freezes. Where can he go? Who is it? How many people are coming toward—

“ _Ungh!_ ”

John flies backward, arms and legs entangled with whoever’s just run headlong into him. He glimpses grey hair, a flash of something that may be glasses, before he lands on his back in the water. Without the heat of the fire above him, the cold takes his breath away. Great. Now he’s drenched front _and_ back.

More splashing from ahead. Sounding like multiple people this time.

John tries to disentangle himself, just manages to get to his knees and—

_Crack._

Something butts him _hard_ in the side of head. John goes down for the third time in as many minutes. Pain lances up his arm. A second crack alerts him to the fact that whoever ran into him has received similar treatment.

John lays on his side, stunned.

Two voices overhead.

“Jesus. It’s the Commissioner.”

What?

“What do we do? Who’s the other one?”

A pause.

“Take them to Bane.”

 

* * *

 

Miles and miles of tunnels.

At least, that’s what it feels like.

John’s half-frogmarched, half-dragged through endless tunnels. And he’d thought he could find the boys down here? He probably would’ve ended up starving to death first. John’s head throbs and his vision wavers. The other guy – _Commissioner Gordon_ , he corrects himself – seems to be faring even worse. John thinks he’s been shot.

They’re marched past torrents of water, into a large circular space, to be dumped unceremoniously onto a concrete platform. John lands on his knees, but Commissioner Gordon immediately slumps over at the edge of the platform, dangerously close to the rushing water below.

Men move all around the cavernous space, averting their eyes when they get close to John or the Commissioner. Yellow hard hats, bright in the gloom. Construction workers? Then John’s attention is diverted by something else.

Teenagers. Mostly boys but some girls there too. Dozens upon dozens of them amongst the construction crews, delivering equipment, ferrying away rubble, unpacking supplies. What the fuck is going on here?

“Why are you here?”

John’s eyes snap forward again. A man – and it _is_ a man, can’t be anything else, though he’s huger than any man John’s ever seen – rises from a crouch. Muscles and scar tissue seem to glow in the lamplight. John can hardly believe that that voice – smooth, rich, _cultured_ – is coming from this hulk of a man. It’s like hearing Bruce Wayne talk with a Southern drawl.

The gunmen shove him and the Commissioner roughly. “Answer him!”

The man – the ‘Bane’ the gunmen were talking about, John realises – moves closer, pins the gunmen with a stare. “I was talking to you.”

The gunmen are instantly nervous. John can hear it in the shake of their voices, though he dares not turn his head to look. “It—this is the Police Commissioner. This guy was with him.”

“And you brought them here?” Bane asks, all pleasant enquiry. He almost sounds like he’s asking about the weather.

“We didn’t know what to do. We thought—”

“You panicked.” Bane’s voice sharpens. He’s right beside John, but terror keeps John facing resolutely forward. “And your weakness will cost four lives.”

“No, there’s only these two—”

There’s a gasp and a sick, wet crunch.

Oh, _God_.

The body hits the ground on John’s right and John can’t control his full body flinch. _Don’t look, don’t look_. The gunman’s rifle slides from nerveless fingers. Another gunman – tall, wiry – moves forward and kicks it away from John. Like John could even grab the rifle. His entire body feels like it’s trapped in a body bind.

“Kid.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, but John hears it all the same. He turns his head to look. Commissioner Gordon is staring at him with startlingly clear eyes. “Kid,” he rasps out again, “When I move, follow me.”

John stares. What does that even—?

“Search them.” Bane again. “Then I will kill you.”

Rough hands grab at John’s clothes, dig through his pockets. They pull out his wallet, keys, cell. John can’t even open his mouth to make a word of protest. It’s _humiliating_. His would-be captor does the same for the Commissioner, hands shaking so badly he fumbles Gordon’s badge and wallet as he hands them to Bane. John can’t find it in him to pity him.

Bane takes John’s stuff with barely a glance, but he lingers on a document pulled out of Commissioner Gordon’s coat. Actually turns away to examine it.

It happens faster than John can process.

Commissioner Gordon, gasping wetly on the floor, suddenly _rolls himself off the edge_ and into the rushing storm water. Men shout out from all around the chamber. The gunman who’d captured them runs to the edge and fires wildly into the water before lowering his rifle to the side and saying to Bane: “He’s dead.”

Bane seems less than impressed. “Then show me his body.”

John thinks Bane and the gunman keep talking, but it’s getting harder for John to hear. He watches as Bane zips something into the gunman’s jacket. There’s buzzing in his head, growing louder and louder. He just missed his chance to escape, and now he’s going to die, _he’s going to die_ —

A gunshot. Loud. Close by. John flinches.

The second gunman tumbles into the water.

John gapes, frozen on the floor.

And then Bane turns his attention to him.

“And who are you?”

John lifts his head. And stares. It’s the first time he’s looked up properly, so it’s only now that he sees the mask. Spidery and alien-looking, like something out of a horror movie. What he’d thought was weird acoustics in the chamber was actually the mask.

The sound of Bane’s voice directed at him makes John’s brain boil over with fear. He’s going to die, he’s going to die. Insanity seizes his vocal chords and he says: “Go fuck yourself.”

He wants to bite his tongue off the instant it comes out of his mouth. What’s wrong with him?

The punch comes like the fury of God. Inexorable and terrible.

All the air bursts out of John’s lungs. He hunches over to protect his vulnerable belly. Tries to draw in a breath; can’t pull any air in past the pain. Another blow whips his head to the side and dark spots blot his vision. John feels something pouring out his nose, can taste blood, metallic salty, on his tongue. He gags.

Bane’s massive hand settles around his throat—

“ _No!_ ”

That cry doesn’t come from John. John can barely keep himself from throwing up, let alone say anything.

Sounds of splashing water. Panting.

And then something—no, John realises, _someone_ throws themself across him. Shielding him. From Bane.

John raises his head to see what suicidal idiot would do such a thing. Finds himself staring at Emilio from three inches away. _Emilio. Alive._ John sags with relief.

His relief is cut short when he realises Emilio is gripping onto Bane’s wrist. Oh God. Oh no. John tries to speak, to order Emilio to get away, _anything_ , but nausea and leftover terror cleave his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“Please. _Please, please, please_ , let him go. He don’t know nothing. He ain’t a cop.” Emilio’s almost hyperventilating with fear. And still he clings to Bane’s wrist, practically dangling off of it like a rag doll for all it seems to affect Bane.

Bane blinks once. “What does that matter to me?”

Emilio fists his other hand in John’s shirt. “Please,” he begs again. “He’s not a cop. You can’t kill him. You _can’t_. I know he don’t mean nothing to you, but he’s all some of us have got up there. Please. I’ll work for free, you don’t even have to feed me, but. _Please_. Don’t kill him. If you kill him, I don’t know—I don’t know what we’ll—” Emilio breaks off, gasping, choking on tears.

“Hush. Enough,” Bane says. “I believe I understand.” It sounds almost gentle, but that’s clearly insane because Bane just _murdered_ two people, he was ready to murder _John_ —

“Your protector is an intruder,” Bane says, “and we cannot risk intruders.”

Jesus.

Emilio lets out a sob. John closes his eyes.

He feels Emilio desperately trying to curl his body over him, a futile effort to protect him. John finds enough strength to make his limbs move, to push Emilio away. No sense in both of them dying.

Everything is silent. John feels like he kneels there for an eternity, waiting.

Then: “However. Even the great warlord Saladin said that Allah honours those who honour widows and orphans. I feel no need to be closer to God… but Saladin’s example is not a terrible one to follow. So I will grant you your request, child.”

What? _What?_ John looks up sharply, regrets it as his vision swims sickeningly again.

Emilio’s rising to his feet. Eyes wide, face radiant. “ _Thank you._ Thank you, thank you—”

“I have my conditions,” Bane interrupts, holding up a hand. Emilio falls silent, though he doesn’t stop beaming. “One: you will remain here, child, and continue the work you have been tasked with. Two: your protector will give his word that he will leave and never speak of what he saw down here.”

Bane glances at John. His grey eyes reflect nothing, like a winter sky. “We will know if he breaks his word. And then both of you will pay."


	5. Chapter 5

Bane seems content to leave John and Emilio alone for a few minutes, once he extracts a vow from John that he won’t go running to the cops the minute he gets to the surface. And why should he worry? John’s already demonstrated he can’t do shit if Bane wants to kill him.

The instant Bane walks away, two blank-faced men trot up to remove the corpse at John’s side with clinical efficiency. Like they get rid of dead bodies all the time, no big deal. John has to turn aside as they drag it away. Emilio runs off – still radiating relieved gratitude in Bane’s direction like a miniature sun – and returns shortly with a damp cloth. “Y’got blood all over your face,” he says helpfully.

John dabs at his face gingerly. Now that pain and fear of dying a horrible death aren’t at the forefront of his brain, he can better process details. There’s no natural light anywhere, which is to be expected. But John can’t hear the rumble of overhead traffic either, like he could when he’d first jumped down the manhole. That means they’re either really far down or really far away from the populated areas of Gotham. Neither option is particularly comforting.

His attention keeps returning to all the kids in the chamber. He can scarcely believe how _many_ there are. Some of them cluster on the periphery. All of them are craning to get a better look at the guy Emilio just risked getting pulverised by Bane for. Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, he turns to Emilio and says, “Father Reilly said a few of the guys who aged out have gone missing. Are they all here?”

“I guess? We don’t all work in the same section,” Emilio says. _Oh God, there are even more kids than this?_ Before John can interrogate him on that point, Emilio leans closer, sunny countenance falling away. He looks anxious, upset. “Listen, John. I don’t wanna be telling you more. It’s not— it’s not a good idea for you to know more, okay? You need to leave. The other guys need you up top. Don’t worry about us, we’ll be okay.” He tries to summon up a smile, but John’s in no mood to be buying it.

“You’ll be _okay_?” John hisses. “What? Emilio, that psycho just killed two people. You’re crazy if you think I’m leaving you and the boys down here with him!”

“Yeah, he did, and _you’re_ crazy if you think you got a choice! When Bane tells you to go, you go, _mano_ ,” Emilio hisses back.

John rubs his face. How can he make Emilio understand? He can’t leave them alone. He’d rather slit his throat than let another one of his boys die. He pins Emilio with an earnest stare. “Look. I swore to Bane that I’d leave and not go to the cops. I never said I wouldn’t come back.”

Emilio shakes his head, opening his mouth to argue more, before freezing suddenly. John _knows_ Bane is looming behind him. How much had he heard? Is he going to try and punish Emilio? The thought makes John’s hackles rise and he pivots to face Bane, moving in front of Emilio protectively.

If he’d heard anything, Bane gives no sign. He merely cocks his head, eyes glittering as he takes in John’s protective stance. John bristles even further under the scrutiny, uncertain of Bane’s intent. “Such loyalty,” Bane says, after a long silence. Then he barks out, “Barsad! Diego!”

The man who’d kicked the rifle away from John steps forward, along with a shorter man who holds his rifle with less ease than the first. Bane turns his back on John entirely to address them; his casual dismissal of John as a potential threat is fucking _insulting_. “Escort our guest back to the surface. Afterwards, I want Barsad scouting the strike areas in zone three. On your return, Diego, locate the Commissioner and our former colleague. Make sure both the bodies are not found.”

Bane hands the shorter man – Diego – a small device whose screen is lit up with a map and a blinking dot. Diego tucks it into a pocket of his vest. It’s a handheld GPS tracker, John realises after a moment. He dimly recalls Bane zipping something up into the jacket of John’s captor. Right before he’d shot him. John’s brain had been mired in a frenzy of fear at the time, but he’s _certain_ Bane had placed a GPS beacon in the man’s jacket.

A plan sparks in John’s mind.

Bane turns to John, regards him with that same narrow-eyed, assessing look and says, “Farewell, Robin Blake.” _How—?_ Oh. John’s wallet. Right.

John opens his mouth to form the habitual ‘It’s John, actually’, but then he’s being marched out with military efficiency. At least they allow him the dignity of walking under his own power this time. John walks meekly ahead of the taller gunman – Barsad, apparently – while Diego walks ahead of them both. After the incessant roar of water in the other chamber, the silence of the tunnels is startling. John blinks, eyes struggling to adjust to the gloom of the tunnel.

They walk mostly in silence, save for the times when Barsad gives John a terse instruction to turn into this tunnel or that tunnel. John’s nerves are jangling. He’s well aware he might get shot for what he’s about to try; Bane only said that John wouldn’t be killed. His henchmen can still shoot to wound.

They’ve almost reached a service ladder when John sees his chance. Diego stops next to it, but John keeps walking like he hasn’t noticed, collides _hard_ with Diego. They go down into the water in a tangle of limbs, Diego cursing all the way.

John’s out of practice, but he’s always been a talented pickpocket. He feels quickly for Diego’s vest pocket, flips the tracker out; conceals the glow of the screen with his palm and slides it smoothly into the waistband of his pants. Just in time, as Diego shoves him off with a snarl and Barsad hauls John up by the back of his shirt. Barsad snaps something at Diego in a foreign language, rapid-fire and guttural. The other man subsides, sulkily picking up his rifle from where it had slipped out of his hands.

John’s body locks up when Barsad changes his grip on his rifle. _Shit_ , has he been caught? But Barsad merely gestures to the service ladder with his rifle, saying, “Up.”

John emerges from the manhole into another alley. Somewhere in China Basin, he guesses. He can see the hulking shape of Blackgate Prison to the north. He turns to the gunmen who’ve emerged from the manhole behind him. A perverse part of him makes him sketch a little bow – ignoring the pain in his gut – and say with a smirk, “Thanks for the escort, guys. It’s been a pleasure. I’ll be sure to recommend the tour to all my friends.”

Diego just glares and Barsad gives him a flat look.

Okay. Well then. John leaves the alley quickly without looking back. Once he’s around the corner, he bursts into a sprint. He doesn’t stop running until he reaches Scott Boulevard, where there’s far more people milling about, even at this late hour.

China Basin’s a fashionable area, in a hipster sort of way, lined with pretentious bars and record stores. Passers-by in skinny leg jeans, tweed and black-framed glasses stare at him then avert their eyes when he stares back. John can’t blame them; he’s drenched in sewer water, half of his face probably resembles ground beef and he’s pretty sure there’s blood soaked into the collar of his shirt.

John glances around. No shouting behind him. No gunmen trying to shoot him for stealing (it’s almost like he’s fifteen again, really). He pulls the tracker out of his waistband and peers at it. A little red dot blips merrily on the screen, pinpointing a spot on the edge of Queens River, where the interstate highway passes over Gotham.

Right. John turns resolutely in the direction of the river. The Commissioner had tried to help John when they were down there with Bane. John’s not going to let him be murdered by Bane’s thugs now.

 

* * *

 

It takes him fifteen minutes to get to the pinpointed location. He’d gotten turned around twice, trying to gauge his next move from the map whilst simultaneously navigating the streets. The location turns out to be a drainage area beneath the interstate highway. Storm water pours steadily into the river as John peers into the darkness. He can’t make out a goddamn thing. There’s only one thing for it, he thinks resignedly. He wades into the water, swearing as the cold of the river hits him. _How many times is he going to end up in the water today, seriously?_

Now that he’s closer, he can easily spot a large lump pushed up against a storm grille. Stumbling, sodden clothes dragging him down, John makes his way over to it. _Bingo._ It’s Commissioner Gordon, face down in the water. Pushed up against him is the dead weight of their would-be captor.  
John cringes. He hadn’t thought this part through entirely. But he _needs_ that beacon.

First priority is Gordon, though. John rolls the man over so he’s no longer inhaling water, then gingerly reaches into the dead man’s jacket. God. His skin crawls. John feels around for the beacon. His fingers close around thick plastic and he jerks his hand back out, shuddering. He tucks the beacon into his pocket and drags Gordon a little further away so he no longer has to look at the body.

John thinks he can still feel those sightless, staring eyes boring into his back.

John stares down at the Commissioner in helpless consternation. Shit, what now? He tries to recall what he’d been taught in that CPR course Father Reilly insisted he take, but exhaustion makes his brain draw a blank. He slaps Gordon’s face a few times, shakes him. God, is he _dead_? Has John just wasted his time and possibly risked being hunted down by Bane’s henchmen for a man who’s already dead?

John finds himself muttering the _Hail Mary_ under his breath. He hasn’t been to church since leaving St. Swithin’s (and he’d barely attended then), but he’d been raised Catholic. Some rituals will never leave him, even if his faith has.

Then Gordon coughs and groans weakly, water sputtering out of his mouth. John lets out a relieved breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.  
It takes him an age to drag Gordon out of the water. He’s pathetically weak by the end; his muscles spasm sporadically from cold and exertion. John falls onto the ground beside Gordon, panting. Jesus, Gordon looks messed up. He needs a hospital, but how—? Bane kept all of John’s stuff, including his cell.

Summoning his last reserves of energy, John lurches up the small hill, back onto Stolih Street proper. He can see some people down the street, backlit by street lights: a manand a woman walking their dog.

“Hey,” he croaks, then tries again, louder. “Hey!”

They stop and turn to look at him, but don’t say anything.

John waves at them. “I need help! The Police Commissioner’s down here, he’s been shot! Someone needs to call an ambulance, I don’t have a cell!”

The couple turn to one another, obviously conferring about whether they should help the crazy guy who’s just crawled out of the sewer screaming about needing assistance. He realises it sounds completely shady, like a set-up to lure them into an alley to mug them and rape her, but he’s tired, he’s in pain and he’s _out of goddamn options._

“Look,” he says desperately, “I’ll leave, if it’ll make you feel safer. But the Police Commissioner is down there and he’s going die unless he gets some fucking medical attention!”

Finally, _finally_ the man approaches him, body language cautious and face suspicious, but his cell phone is in his hand. John backs away. The man peers over the edge of the incline, spies Gordon and says, “Jesus, it really is him. Christ.” The man hits 9-1-1 on his cell, begins speaking urgently to the operator.

John’s mind starts to fuzz out at the edges. That’s it. He’s done. He’s done all he can do for now. He stumbles away, ignores the man’s shouts to _come back, doesn’t he need help too? Hey!_

John’s fucking going _home_.


	6. Chapter 6

John sleeps.  
  
He wakes momentarily from a nightmare – half-formed, mad things, full of wide staring eyes and freezing water – into darkness, only to feel a big, warm hand settle on his shoulder with a _“Shh, it’s alright, John.”_ Father Reilly. St. Swithin’s. He’s alright. He’s _safe_ here.  
  
John sags back onto the pillows.  
  
He sleeps for fifteen hours.  
  
When he wakes, the last rays of the setting sun are creeping in past the curtains, staining the room in deep reds and oranges. John blinks muzzily. His mouth tastes like crap and the tendrils of a headache still linger. Father Reilly is nowhere in sight.  
  
John takes stock of his situation. He’s at St. Swithin’s, in one of the two infirmary beds. Makes sense; Bane even took his fucking apartment keys. His brain dead body must have hauled itself to the next closest thing to home that it knew.  
  
John really needs to get those keys back once he—  
  
John sits bolt upright, scrambles out of the blankets, swears when one insists on tangling around his left foot as he staggers out. The tracker, _the tracker_ , where’s the fucking—  
  
There. On a small chair against the opposite wall. John picks them up, reassuring himself that both tracker and beacon are still intact. They seem okay, although the tracker’s low on battery. Shit. John switches it off to conserve power and looks down. Both tracker and beacon had been sitting on some manila folders, to which a note is taped. It says, in Father Reilly’s familiar blocky writing:  
  
 _John,_  
  
 _There's some food and drink in the staff room fridge, when you’re feeling up to it._  
  
 _\- Reilly_  
  
John’s stomach rumbles the second he thinks of food. He shuffles to the door, feeling like a decrepit old man. His muscles are taut. Lactic acid build-up. His whole body aches.  
  
When he swings open the door, it’s to the sound of two voices crying out, _“John!”_  
  
John barely has time to blink before two sets of bodies throw themselves at him. He looks down. Tim clings to his waist like a limpet, whilst Mark – always slightly reserved – grips his arm tightly. But the wet sheen in his eyes belies his reserve.  
  
Tim breathes into the shoulder of John’s borrowed shirt. “We saw you, everyone saw you come into the home, Father Reilly was practically carrying you to the nurse's office, we thought you were dead, we thought—” His voice is reedy.  
  
Mark’s grip on John’s arm tightens at the word ‘dead’.  
  
John places a hand on each of their heads. Jesus. These kids have had enough to deal with, what with Emilio and Jimmy disappearing, followed by Jimmy’s death. They didn’t need the thought that John was dying too.  
  
“I’m okay,” he manages to creak out. “I was mainly just tired.”  
  
“So tired you walked into a door, like, a million times?” Tim says. He’s raised his head from John’s shirt and he’s taking in John’s face; his voice goes from teary to sharp in an instant. “What were you _doing_ last night?”  
  
John considers their anxious faces. He’s never lied to the boys, always answered their questions – no matter how awkward or embarrassing – to the best of his ability. Doesn’t mean he wants to talk about how he thought he was going to die alone and forgotten in a sewer last night.  
  
“I need to eat,” he says instead. “I’ll tell you while I eat.”

 

* * *

 

He tells them in stops and starts.  
  
They’re delighted to hear Emilio’s still alive, actually _high five_ one another when John tells them how Emilio had defended him from Bane. He explains about the tracker and how he plans to return to the sewers, using the beacon to signal where home is. He glosses over as much as possible how it felt, to be powerless before Bane, knowing he was going to die and there was _nothing_ he could do about it. Even touching on it briefly makes him shudder.  
  
When he finishes, Mark and Tim begin whispering furiously to one another at the other end of the table. They throw worried glances at John periodically, but John ignores them in favour of having a spiritual moment with his fourth sandwich. It is the best sandwich. The godliest of sandwiches. John’s going to build a temple in its honour, commandments against false idolatry be damned.  
  
The blows to his head may have affected him more than he thought.  
  
Then Tim says without preamble, “We’re gonna go with you when you go back down.”  
  
“You’re not going to go down--” John begins in a reasonable tone of voice, until his brain processes Tim’s words. Then he squawks, spraying bread and ham all over the Formica, “ _What?_ ”  
  
“You heard me. Also, _gross_. Say it, don’t spray it.”  
  
“No. Absolutely not. You’re not going down there, it’s dangerous. Were you listening when I was talking? Have you looked at my _face_?”  
  
“Yeah. And I’m not in a hurry to do it again. You’re not much to look at,” Tim grins.  
  
“Stop with the jokes! I’m serious, Tim.” John stares them down, distressed. God save him from these kids. Bad enough that Emilio and God knows who else is down there. He’s not having Tim and Mark go down there too. Mark is freaking _twelve years old_.  
  
Said twelve year old takes over now, dark eyes serious. “We’re going with you. I want to know why Jimmy died.”  
  
John’s shoulders drop. He puts his face in his hands. “You can’t go down there, guys. That psycho Bane will kill you.”  
  
“Did he kill Jimmy?”  
  
John blinks. Did Bane? He’d certainly be physically capable of it. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say _yes, yes, he killed him, that’s why you can’t go down there,_ but the memory of Bane’s voice - gentle as he spoke to Emilio - makes him pause.  
  
Tim takes advantage of his hesitation to push their case. “He can’t be killing everyone. There’re heaps of kids working down there, you said so. Me an’ Mark can go down, pretend we’re looking for work. I can carry the beacon thingy in my jacket and you can follow. It’ll be faster than you just walking around the sewers hoping the beacon can lead you back out.”  
  
It’s… sensible. Really sensible. It makes a lot more sense than John’s plan, which _would_ rely on him wandering the sewers aimlessly. John ought to be embarrassed that two teenagers have out-planned him. But… “It’s dangerous,” he says quietly.  
  
“We know,” Mark says, as if sensing Tim’s inevitably flip response isn’t going to get John on their side. “But we can't let you do this alone. You look after us. What’re we supposed to do if you’re gone?”  
  
John leans back in his seat, confused but unexpectedly touched. Mark’s words unintentionally echo Emilio’s plea to Bane. John can’t understand where their insane devotion is coming from.  
  
“All right,” he says, relenting. _This is a bad, bad idea,_ part of his mind warns. “But we’re not doing anything now. Not for a couple of days. I need to plan.”  
  
“Hope it’s better than the other plans you came up with.” Tim again.  
  
Kid just doesn’t know when to quit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GPS trackers and beacons that function underground do exist. They’re bulky, though. But if Batman can have a VTOL urban warfare jet, I can have shrunken underground GPS systems :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Attempted rape of a minor and references to underage prostitution in this chapter

Four days later, they bury Jimmy.

His body’s release from the city morgue had been delayed following the discovery of Commissioner Gordon – barely alive, but recovering steadily at Gotham General thanks to the timely action of some passers-by, GCN reports – near the same outflow site. But a second autopsy had revealed nothing new, and so it had been released into the care of Father Reilly for a funeral.

It’s a graveside service, not only due to expense but because John and Father Reilly agreed Mark wouldn’t be able to participate in anything more formal. The reality of seeing his brother’s body, that his brother was _gone_ , had hit Mark like nothing else had and he’d spent the days leading up to the funeral in a daze. John had barely been able to look at him; his grief at losing his family, twice-over now, too raw to look full in the face.

The day is miserably overcast, heavy clouds threatening rain. Typical Gotham weather, but John is still ridiculously glad the sun hasn’t emerged. He stands at Mark’s side, at the boy’s subdued request. Tim stands on the other. Unable to give any other comfort that Mark would accept, they form a bulwark around him, shield him from the world. All the boys from St. Swithin’s, as well as Jimmy’s friends from school and some girls from St. Clare’s, the local girls’ home, are gathered at the graveside. John can see the faces of volunteers dotted throughout the congregation.

It sinks into John slowly, as he listens to Father Reilly recite _Psalm 25_. He’d already made up his mind to go back to the sewers, but now it’s about more than just protecting his boys. The memory of dozens upon dozens of faces – peering at him as he’d sat with Emilio – rises up, unbidden. Some of them had looked as young as Tim and Mark. The boys living at St Swithin’s at least had Father Reilly and the volunteers. But who cared for those kids down there? Not the cops. Certainly not Bane and his merry band of murderers, who’d left Jimmy to rot in a storm drain.

The knowledge settles firmly around his shoulders like a mantle. Someone has to be there for those kids.

 _Open your mouth for the mute, / For the rights of all the unfortunate. / Open your mouth, judge righteously, / And defend the rights of the afflicted and needy._ Father Reilly had read that to him once, years ago, when John had first arrived at St Swithin’s. Angry, hurting, suspicious, he’d demanded to know why Father Reilly would waste so much time on a bunch of street kids.

Though John has long since lost his faith, the message still resonates.

At the conclusion of the service, as the boys gather around the bus, John meets Mark and Tim’s eyes.

It’s time to go.

 

* * *

 

The next night, John leaves a hand-written message for Father Reilly in his office. Common sense dictates that they leave cleanly; the apathy of Gotham’s bloated police force would be enough to ensure that no one searches for them. But Father Reilly’s one of the few who’s ever given a shit about John and the boys. John won’t leave him to the agony of wondering whether they’re dead or alive.

He turns to Mark and Tim, waiting quietly for him in the foyer. “You guys sure about this?” he whispers, although everyone is in the cafeteria for dinner. The familiar sound of plates clattering and teenage boys talking carries all the way into the foyer. “Last chance to back out.”

Two solemn nods. Mark still looks awful, although he’d cut off John’s offer of waiting a few days with, “I don’t wanna stay here any longer than I have to.” John understands. He could barely stand to go home after his dad died; social services had collected his belongings. Too many memories.

It’s a twenty minute bus ride from East End to China Basin, where Tim says he’s organised for him and Mark to be escorted down to the sewers. While Mark had been mourning his brother and John had been consumed in funeral preparations with Father Reilly and breaking the lease on his apartment, Tim had been busy sending out feelers for people in the know about Bane’s underage workforce. He’d struck gold on the second day in the form of an eighteen year old runaway named Abdul-Jalil – simply called Jalil – who’d been more than happy to take Mark and Tim into the sewers.

_(“Recruiters get, like, a commission for every kid they bring with them to the sewers. Jalil’s stoked there’re two of us,” Tim had informed him, the day before the funeral._

_John had wondered cynically how many kids were working in the sewers of their own free will.)_

John glances at his watch. 7:00 PM. Mark and Tim are to meet Jalil at 7:30, with John set to follow them an hour later. He leaves the boys at an alley entrance located between a karaoke bar and a vintage clothing store called Retro a Go-Go (seriously). It won’t do for Jalil to see him standing with Mark and Tim lest he get spooked. But John refuses to leave them unguarded. He takes up position at a ridiculously overpriced café one block down and across the road from the alley, where he can keep an eye on them.

At 7:30 exactly, a tall, gangly kid swaggers up to the alley and vanishes into its shadows. John’s knee jogs nervously. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He can’t even jump up to look, just in case they don’t go down immediately. He flicks the tracker out of his pocket, fully charged now, thanks to Tim. John hadn’t asked how he’d gotten a charger. Tim knew every pawn shop owner in East End and he was a talented thief besides.

After a minute, the red dot starts to move. John lets out a gust of breath.

The hour passes excruciatingly slowly.

He has to order an exorbitant cup of coffee to avoid being thrown out; drinks it too fast, has to order another. By 8:20, John’s a jangling mass of nerves. His fingertips tingle but his arms and legs feel curiously numb. What’s wrong with him?

It can’t be the caffeine. John practically mainlines coffee. He’s not having second thoughts. He wants to go down to the sewers. The fact that Mark and Tim are now heading down there further cements his resolve. But—

_Sudden body memory of being on his knees, in pain, the salt-metal tang of blood in his mouth and the weight of a hand around his throat—_

John leans forward, breathes out hard. God. _He’s scared of Bane_. A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble out of him. He swallows it down with difficulty. Breathes deeply.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

_Come on. Get it together, Blake._

After a minute, he feels calmer. He pushes away from the table, picks up his backpack. There’s still a slight tremble in his hands, but he no longer feels the urge to scream or throw up. That’ll have to do.

 

* * *

 

His feet land in water again, but this time John’s prepared. Water sloshes harmlessly over his rain boots.

The tunnels are just as gloomy as he remembered, but it’s less of a concern this time as he pulls out the tracker. The red dot has stopped moving. John firmly ignores the whisper of doubt that says it’s stopped moving because they’re dead and taps at the screen to call up the route memory function.

The tracker’s route memory makes it even easier to navigate. He follows the twists and turns of Mark and Tim’s path with only the sounds of quiet splashing and his breathing to keep him company. He’s been walking for five minutes straight, musing on how much easier it is this time around – what with being head injury-free and not at gunpoint – when a noise makes him stop short.

Not just any noise. _Voices._ Just around the next bend.

John immediately begins creeping backwards and toward the wall, taking care not to make noise in the water. He slowly pulls his backpack from his back; slides open the drawstring, reaches in. The GPS charger wasn’t the only thing Tim acquired for him.

He tests the weight of the taser, ensures he’s got a proper grip on it before crouching down low.

The footsteps draw closer.

John breathes evenly, lightly. He feels removed now, disconnected from his body. It feels like he can take in everything, all the details. It’s worlds away from his freak out in the café.

The safety light on the opposite wall means he sees the shadows before the sentries come around the bend.

The first man rounds the bend, looks down at John; jerks back in surprise. “ _What--_ ”

John fires. At such close range, the electrodes can’t miss.

The man goes down, convulsing. Water sprays into the air. His partner runs forward but jerks back from the spray; he can’t aim, can’t fire for risk of shooting his partner. John takes advantage, lunges forward, shoves the taser hard against the man’s side and pulls the trigger again. No darts this time, there’s been no chance to reload, but the taser’s drive stun function kicks in.

The second sentry goes down, same as the first.

John backs away immediately; yanks zip ties out of his bag. He makes quick work of securing the sentries’ hands behind their backs, shoves their scarves into their mouths to stop them from yelling out once they recover muscle function.

John reloads the taser, checks the GPS again. He doesn’t look back.

He has to repeat his ambush tactic three more times before the tracker indicates he’s standing just outside the chamber Tim (and hopefully Mark and Emilio) is in. John can hear many voices now, not loud but all speaking at once, as well as constant hammering and drilling over the ever-present sound of rushing water.

There are no guards at the entrance.

John slides the taser and the tracker into the pouch of his hoodie, flips the hood up over his head and hunches his shoulders. He slips into the chamber without ceremony. From a distance, he can pass for another runaway. He sticks close to the walls, hunkers down near a pile of rubble piled in a roll-off, tries to avoid being noticed. Watches. Construction crews are drilling, level after level of them, so high up the ceiling is lost in shadow. How far down are they? He stares at the jumble of people for any sign of Mark, Tim, Emilio or anyone else from St Swithin's.

It takes him a few moments to realise what he’s staring at.

A little girl.

 _She can’t be any older than ten_ , John thinks. She’s Asian, small and sweet-faced with that blunt fringe haircut all Asian kids seem to get. She’s picking her way in between construction workers, stopping occasionally to tug on a pant leg and ask a question. Most of the construction guys just shake their heads or wave her off, but—

John spent ten months on the street, before the cops picked him up and he ended up in St Swithin’s. It had been an education. It’s made him suspicious as fuck, he knows, but it also taught him to look for certain tells, in johns. The ones whose cars you didn’t get into, no matter how much money they held out.

He sees them now, in the one worker who peels off unnoticed from the rest after the little girl’s passed them. The others are too intent on their work and there are too many people walking around. The man stops her, speaks to her for a bit, a friendly smile on his face. But there’s something off about him, about his eyes.

John gets up slowly. The man stoops down a little and points off to a tunnel, nodding at the girl. She nods back, takes the man’s hand. Walks with him into the tunnel. John looks around. No one seems to have noticed anything.

_Fuck._

He sticks close to the walls still, but makes no other attempt to conceal himself. His heart’s in his throat by the time he reaches the tunnel, but John wastes no time running in. He can just make out the shape of the man at the far end of the tunnel, the edge of him outlined by safety lights.

Heavy breathing. John hears a small whimper, muffled, as if covered by a hand.

“Get the _fuck_ away from her, asshole!”

The man jumps, startled, swings around to look and stumbles back. _His fucking fly’s open_ , John realises. He covers the distance between them in seconds, jerks the taser out. Jams it against the man’s side and, with a vicious satisfaction he hadn’t felt when taking out the sentries, pulls the trigger. John holds the taser there, relishes the man’s truncated animal sounds of agony.

This sick, _sick_ son of a bitch; John’s going to make him wish he’d never been _born_.

Distantly, he hears feet running toward him, shouting.

_Crack._

John reels to the side. Something heavy-hard crunches down on his wrist; John barely manages to keep his grip on the taser. Another blow to his wrist. The taser drops from numb fingers. Another construction worker, up in his face. The first man, the fucking _kiddy fiddler_ , is no longer on the floor but actually _getting up_. He pulls a wrench from his work belt, gets up in John's face too, pulls his arm back to swing—

Unmistakable rattle of gunfire. A spray of brick dust. The construction workers hit the floor.

John looks up.

Framed by the light of the tunnel entrance, assault rifle aimed at the ceiling, stands Barsad.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: references to child sexual abuse

_“Hannah!”_  
  
A dark-haired boy – fifteen, sixteen years old, maybe? – darts past Barsad, past John and the construction workers still face-down on the ground. Barsad makes no move to stop him. The boy gathers the girl up, shaking. She flings her arms around him with a wordless cry. John can see her underwear’s been pulled down around her knees.  
  
He wants to throw up.  
  
Swallowing the bile down, he crawls toward his dropped taser. Gets the muzzle of Barsad’s rifle pushed against his cheek for his trouble. God, John hadn’t even seen him move.  
  
“Leave it,” Barsad says. John does.  
  
More footfalls and two more gun-toting men appear at the tunnel mouth. Barsad snaps something, not in English, although John hears the word ‘Bane’. Of course. The men march past John to haul the construction workers up and out.  
  
The one who’d come to the aid of the first struggles against their grip, looks imploringly at Barsad. “That wasn’t what it looked like, I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to help him grab her, I— I just thought that guy was trespassing, I didn’t realise. I’m not— I don’t touch kids,” he tries to plead, but Barsad turns away dispassionately.  
  
When the men are gone, Barsad glances at John, then at the kids huddled around one another. He gestures with his rifle. “Up.”  
  
It’s like their first encounter all over again.  
  
John gets to his feet slowly. His head hurts. Is this going to be a feature of sewer life? Free accommodation, daily concussions at no extra charge? The boy stands with the little girl – obviously a relative – cradled in his arms. He eyes John warily, as if unsure whether John was part of the attack or the rescue party. Barsad says something, too low for John to hear. The boy replies in the same low tone and hurries out, clasping the girl to him like fine treasure. But his second glance at John is grateful, if fleeting.  
  
Barsad leads John out, not at gunpoint this time, although John has no doubt Barsad would shoot his kneecaps out if he tried to run. He tracks the boy’s progress through the main chamber until he disappears into another tunnel where several other kids are milling about. Living quarters, maybe?  
  
“What did you say to him?” John asks.  
  
Inscrutable glance from Barsad. “That you were not to be feared.” It kind of sounds like an insult.  
  
“Oh. Thanks.”  
  
Barsad makes no reply.  
  
He leads John not to the central platform, like last time, but to a balconied area. Part of the balcony is partitioned from view of the rest of the chamber by canvas, tarpaulin and dozens of computer screens. John can see a steel-framed bed pushed into the corner. There’s a table beside it, covered in maps and papers and electronics.  
  
And then he sees Bane. Sitting on a pile of cargo boxes with all the upright bearing of a warlord, partially concealed in shadow. It makes the rasp-hiss of his breathing seem all the more sinister.  
  
The construction workers are already on their knees before him.  
  
Barsad leaves John standing about three feet away from the workers to strides up to Bane, bends to speak quietly into his ear. He speaks for a long time. Whatever he’s saying, Bane gives no reaction beyond flicking his gaze back and forth between John and the workers.  
  
Up close, out of the fight, John can see the men on the ground are younger than he’d thought. Disturbingly, they don’t look much older than John. The one that tried to take the girl has dark blond curls with a fine dusting of freckles across his nose - he looks almost angelic. Looking at them – kneeling before Bane, just as he had once – John feels a swoop of pity. The thought makes him furious, so sudden that he’s dizzy from it. He doesn’t want to feel anything close to sympathy for them.  
  
Barsad finishes talking; he backs away as Bane rises to his feet. Bane walks closer – practically strolls – and bends to examine the blond. John holds his breath. The man visibly flinches when Bane’s hands come to rest on his shoulders in an almost companionable gesture. Then Bane’s enormous hands curl around the man’s throat, his jaw.  
  
The man begins to weep; low, pathetic and broken.

John watches his shoulders judder with the sobs. His fury is swept aside abruptly, leaving him feeling hollowed out, before pity and alarm rush to fill its place. “ _Stop._ ”  
  
Bane looks up, surprise evident despite the mask. The full force of that gaze brings John to a temporary halt.  
  
“Just… you don’t have to do this,” he says weakly, when he’s recovered his voice. He has no idea where this is coming from, he thinks the men kneeling before Bane are _disgusting_ , but he can’t let a murder be committed right in front of him. “You can— make him go to the cops. You’ve got enough firepower around, he can’t escape. Make him confess. Make him get help.”  
  
Bane just keeps staring. John stares back, chin tilted up.  
  
Then Bane blinks; it’s slow, lizard-like. He looks back down. The blond is staring up at him now, tears and the faintest gleam of hope in his eyes and—  
  
Bane snaps his neck.  
  
John makes a noise, he knows he does; thinks he may have cried out. He must have tried to run forward because Barsad’s suddenly in his way, shoving him back and away from Bane and the remaining man, who kneels, shocked, beside the body.  
  
“You murdered him,” the man says, voice feeble. A wet trickle runs from between his legs. Christ. He’s pissed himself. Disgust and pity churn in John’s gut in equal measure.  
  
“No,” Bane says, dismissive. He straightens up. “Only a human can be murdered. One slaughters an animal.”  
  
The second man begins trembling then—hard, bone-deep tremors that shake his whole body. Bane regards him, impassive. Then, astonishingly, impossibly he turns away. “Leave,” he says, attention already on something laid out on his table.  
  
It’s a clear dismissal but the dark haired man just stares for a moment, uncomprehending. Then the essential message seems to click: Bane’s not going to kill him. He scrambles to his feet, throws a wide-eyed glance at the gunmen, at John, and runs from the balcony. John watches him go then whirls back to look at Bane.  
  
“You’re letting him go?” he demands. Not out of any desire to see the man dead, but pure astonishment that Bane would let him live.  
  
Bane misunderstands, of course. “You wish for me to kill him, too?”  
  
The anger rolls back in on a tide that makes John see red. “What— _no_. I don’t want anyone killed, you—”  
  
“No? Not even when you held the trigger down, though Barsad tells me the man was well past the point of incapacitation?”  
  
How long had Barsad been watching?

“He got back up,” John snarls, “and no, I didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted to hurt him enough that he wouldn’t try it again.” He knows how asinine that sounds the minute it comes out of his mouth. Child abusers don’t stop abusing children just because they get hurt. But he can’t admit – doesn’t want to admit – that he’d done it because it had felt _good_ , in the basest way, to hear the man scream.  
  
Bane is staring at him at again. It’s that same assessing look he sported the night he spared John’s life, but even more focused. John tries to avoid thinking of any comparisons with headlights and deer. “That worker will spread the word on the punishment I have meted out," Bane says slowly. “Any man who thinks about doing what this—” he nudges the dead body with his foot, “—did will think again.”  
  
“You don’t have to kill a man to send a message,” John says, still riding on the crest of fury. Angry is good. Angry is better than terrified.  
  
Behind him, Barsard snorts.  
  
“Men only respect the threat of punishment if they believe you are willing to enforce it,” Bane says.  
  
John falters. It’s a twisted, psychotic version of something he uses with his own boys: you don’t threaten time out or removal of privileges unless you’re willing to follow through after they break the rules. That doesn’t mean Bane’s being _reasonable,_ though.  
  
Bane moves closer, looms over John. John has to tilt his chin up to keep looking him in the eye. God, he’s huge. This close, he can smell Bane: the warm oiled leather of his combat jacket and the salt of his skin. The last time Bane had been this close he’d had his hand wrapped around John’s throat—

The simmer of anger in his chest keeps the fear at bay. Just.  
  
“Barsad tells me you took down eight of my men,” Bane says, apparently taking John’s silence as conceding the argument. John shrugs, although he has to fight to contain a smirk. “Took them down through deception and trickery, as you were later bested by two construction workers,” Bane finishes.  
  
John’s smugness nosedives into irritation. “I did what I had to, to get in here.”  
  
“Certainly. But why are you here? I believe we had an agreement. Or do you place so little value in the life of the child who pleaded for you?” Bane walks back to his cargo container throne, reclines like he’s waiting to hear a good story.  
  
John refuses to rise to the bait, although a fresh ribbon of anger runs through him, white-hot. “I said I’d leave. I never said I wouldn’t come back. And I didn’t talk to the cops.”  
  
“Indeed you did not. But you saved the life of one, using equipment you stole from me,” Bane replies. His tone of voice is so even that John can’t tell whether Commissioner Gordon being alive or John’s theft bothers him more.  
  
John freezes when Barsad – shit, he’d forgotten he was standing there – puts his hand in John’s hoodie pouch, pulls the tracker out and holds it up for Bane to see. Bane glances at the screen and says, “Locate the beacon. Bring his accomplice.” He looks at the body, still on the floor. “Remove this.”  
  
Barsad disappears whilst the gunmen hop over immediately to do Bane’s bidding.  
  
John goes cold. Oh God, _Tim_. “Don’t hurt him,” he says, his voice low and dark. He has no doubt that Barsad will find Tim. Tim’s clever, but Barsad’s something else. “Don’t you dare lay a fucking finger on him.”  
  
“I am not in the habit of murdering children,” Bane says. Part of John hears the warning in Bane’s voice but he barrels on, too furious and frightened for Tim. The anger is buzzing in his head now like a swarm of bees.  
  
“You left Jimmy’s body in a storm drain! You practically threatened to kill Emilio just now! You want to know why I’m here? _That’s_ why. Someone has to be here for those kids you’ve got working for you. Someone has to protect them from _you_.”  
  
That last line slips out before he fully processes it. _Fuck._

Bane moves with shocking speed. John only manages to back up one step before Bane grabs him, hauls him off his feet. Crushes John against the wall with one massive forearm across his throat. The pressure is immense. Almost immediately, John’s wheezing for breath. He can just scrape the ground with his toes.  
  
“You patronise them,” Bane says, cold metal of the mask brushing up against John’s ear. Now, _now_ John hears the thin vein of fury in Bane’s voice. “They are neither so helpless nor blind to the dangers of the world as you seem to believe.”  
  
“And _you_ think they’re so capable you didn’t do shit until someone almost raped a little girl,” John spits back. Bane presses harder. John’s starting to see stars, but he refuses to back down on this, manages to force out: “They’re still kids. They need to know there are some adults who actually give a shit about them, even if they can look after themselves.”  
  
That hits home. John sees something flicker in Bane’s gaze. And John is _really_ starting to get lightheaded now, but he holds the stare. Tries not to blink, though it makes his eyes water.  
  
Finally, blissfully, the pressure on John’s throat eases. Bane steps back and John slides down the wall, lands unsteadily on his feet. Bane puts a stabilising hand on John’s arm, but John is too busy sucking in air to really care. He was wrong. Apparently, sewer life comes with daily concussions _and_ throttling.  
  
“Your intentions are laudable, if misinformed,” Bane says. He’s back to staring at John with the assessing look, not the murderous look. He hasn’t taken his hand off John’s arm.  
  
John is saved the effort of replying by the sound of marching feet. It sounds like more than two people. Barsad reappears, rifle now slung over his shoulder. He’s gripping a defiant-looking Tim by the shoulders. Then, to John’s everlasting exasperation, Mark and Emilio peep around the corner, though they make no move to enter the balcony area proper.  
  
Bane turns to Tim. “I believe you are in possession of some of my equipment.” He holds his hand out for the beacon.  
  
Tim gives him a mutinous stare and instead looks to John, as if seeking permission. Bane makes a small noise. If John didn’t know better, he’d think it was a snort.  
  
John shakes his head. “Give it to him. We don’t need it anymore.”  
  
Tim unzips his jacket, takes out the beacon and holds it out to Bane with bad grace. Bane takes it without comment then walks to the balcony railing.  
  
Without looking at any of them, he says, “None may stay here without working. Barsad will give you your work orders tomorrow. Tonight, you shall rest. You may stay in the eastern tunnel,” he points at the tunnel John had watched the boy carry the little girl into. Bane glances at Emilio, “I trust you will be able to find them suitable living space?”  
  
Emilio nods mutely, eyes wide.  
  
Bane turns away. Conversation’s over. Barsad marches them out, leaves them at the entrance to the eastern tunnel before vanishing again like a djinn, a spirit of fire and air.  
  
As they scout for a suitable area – John insisting on a spot that will allow him to overlook the tunnel entrance and most of the living quarters – Emilio says enthusiastically, “Man, you survived being in the shit with Bane twice now! You’re, like, Harry Potter!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: references to child sexual abuse

“This is creepy.”  
  
“ _Shh!_ Not so loud.”  
  
“You shush.”  
  
“They’re not even looking at us.They’re all staring at John.”  
  
Tim scoffs. “And that makes it less creepy how?”  
  
John gives Tim a tired look.  
  
But he has a point. The staring _is_ disconcerting. Dozens of kids had begun observing his every move the second he’d entered the tunnel – not hostile, but not welcoming either. After his first few attempts at talking to them had fallen flat, John had begun cataloguing the tunnel instead; if he was going to be living in it for the foreseeable future, he needed to know the ins and outs of it.  
  
The tunnel is big; longer and wider than the main chamber, but lower ceilinged. To his surprise, it’s relatively clean and it doesn’t smell, thanks to the moving air. But the biggest surprise is the cots.  
  
He’d been confused when Emilio had directed them to a pile of canvas-wrapped bundles protected by a tarp sheet and told them to take one bundle each. They’d turned out to be folding cots.  
  
From his vantage point, John can see that each kid has their own cot. And judging by the small layer of dirt and dust covering it, the pile has been there for at least a month – possibly before the kids even came down to the tunnels. Its presence suggests a level of foresight and consideration that John wouldn’t have credited to Bane.  
  
He’s not sure how to reconcile it with the rest of his knowledge of Bane; a man who seemingly commits murder at the slightest provocation and feels no compunction about using child labour. Speaking of which—  
  
“Emilio,” he says abruptly, “What _are_ you doing down here? I mean, do you know why you’re doing all this construction stuff?”  
  
Emilio fiddles with his hoodie drawstring. “Well… not really. I mean, it’s probably not legal or they wouldn’t be recruitin’ kids, right?” He grins nervously at John. “Honestly, we don’t ask. Some of the guys tried, when we first started coming down here. They got slapped down by Bane’s guys, so we all learned pretty quick not to ask.”  
  
John nods. That’s pretty much what he’d expected.  
  
The staring is getting _really_ uncomfortable.  
  
He takes to staring at them back. Some of them avoid his gaze, but others – mainly the youngest and the eldest – meet it straight-on. All of them look relatively healthy, despite their lank, greasy or knotted hair. Some of them wear beanies to cover it. A decent number have acne breakouts, but that could be attributed to hormones just as much as irregular hygiene. All of them – save for the very youngest ones – sport bruises, cuts and grazes on their hands and arms.  
  
John fervently hopes they’re work injuries.  
  
He can hear a whispered conversation between the boys before Emilio asks, “Why’d you come back here? I got Bane to let you go and you _came back_. That’s crazy, _mano._ When Barsad – that’s the guy who took Tim—”  
  
“I know who Barsad is.”  
  
“—right. Well, when Barsad took Tim, I thought for sure he was taking him so Bane could kill him, like, to punish you. Me and Mark ran after him ‘cos of it.”  
  
John thinks of Bane’s abrupt fury at John’s implication that he was a danger to the kids. Of the cot that he’s sitting on now, provided by Bane. He’s not sure now that Bane _would_ have killed Tim, for all that he was willing to kill John. But to answer Emilio’s question, he says, “I told you already. I’m not going to leave you guys alone down here.”  
  
“But _why?_ ”  
  
John sighs. There were so many levels to that question; but, at the root, it revealed a lack of self-worth that Emilio probably didn’t even realise he’d revealed. It makes John’s throat tight and stokes the old, familiar anger. What kind of city was Gotham, that it taught the citizens who needed its protection the most that they were unworthy of it?

And how to explain his drive to return, when he can barely explain it to himself? He’d only scratched the surface of it in what he’d said to Bane, although Bane had accepted it as explanation enough. He’d never told the boys details about his time on the street, although they knew he’d been a street kid. He’d never wanted them to deal with his shit whilst working through their own.  
  
John wishes suddenly, desperately for Father Reilly. He’d been far, far better at this than John. But it’s thinking of Father Reilly that gives him an idea on how to explain it.  
  
“When I first got put in St. Swithin’s, I was… so mad. At everything. Part of it was because the last foster home I was in was just… shitty,” – (understatement) – “and I thought St. Swithin’s was going to be just as shit. But Father Reilly… well, you know how he is. It didn’t matter how mad I got or what I said to him, he was always _there_ for me. And I didn’t really get it at the time, but it meant a lot, you know? After having to deal with so much crap on my own, it meant a lot to know that someone was there for _me_. That he’d always be on _my_ side, not the cops’ side or the Court’s side.”  
  
Emilio’s quiet. And John becomes aware, although he’s not quite sure how, that Emilio isn’t the only one who’s listening. It’s suddenly _too_ quiet in the tunnel, as if dozens of people are holding their breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tim and Mark glancing around.  
  
It feels as though he’s on the cusp of something important.  
  
He doesn’t dare look up, afraid to break the spell, but rushes on to add, “I’m not saying you guys can’t look after yourselves or anything like that. But I think— I came down here because I want you to know that I _am_ on your side. I won’t be on anyone else’s. You’re not forgotten just because you came down here. You get me?”  
  
After a long, long silence, Emilio pushes himself to his feet. His voice is as soft as duckling down. “Yeah, I get you.”

 

* * *

 

John falls asleep eventually.  
  
Clearly he must have, John figures, because he blinks suddenly into wakefulness, hairs on the back of his neck prickling. _What—?_ Then he realises.  
  
_Someone’s hovering over him._  
  
Still face down in his cot, John tenses. Is it that other construction worker? One of the guys he tased? Well, like fuck he’s getting _stabbed in bed_ after surviving Bane. He considers his options. No taser – Barsad had seen to that. No weapons. Just a backpack under the cot filled with clothes and toiletries. All he’s got is the element of surprise. But that’s fine. John’s fought unfair fights before.  
  
He flips over, quickly if a little clumsily, and lunges upward; gets his arms up, ready to throw a punch or block a knife—  
  
Barsad slaps John’s arms down and knocks him back onto the cot.  
  
John blinks up at him, dazed by the sudden orientation switch. “Ah. Are you here to deliver my daily concussion?”  
  
A pause, then Barsad quirks an eyebrow at him; that’s practically a nonplussed expression, John decides, based on all the other non-expressions he’s seen Barsad make. “Work will be starting soon,” Barsad says.  
  
“Oh.” John sits up.  
  
Mark is just starting to stir; he’s always been a heavy sleeper and he still looks exhausted besides. Emilio and Tim are already up, and laughing at John. Brats.  
  
Once he’s out of bed, however, Emilio disappears and then reappears to offer him a battered stainless steel mug filled to the brim with coffee. It’s hot, fragrant, and sweetly dark; _real_ coffee, not the instant crap John’s been living off for the past year or so to save money. He thinks he may be openly salivating.  
  
“We can look after you too, _mano_ ,” Emilio says quietly, smile crooked.  
  
It’s an offer and a subtle reminder together. John takes it – and the coffee – with a smile.

 

* * *

 

Barsad permits Emilio to lead them to breakfast, while he vanishes up the stairs to Bane’s personal balcony. Breakfast is porridge, somewhat watery, being ladled out by a barrel-chested, pug-faced man whose arms are compact with muscle. John walks away with his bowl, nursing the distinct impression he’s narrowly avoided getting a soup ladle through the eye. Was that one of the guys he’d tasered?  
  
Even Mark is grinning at him. “Do you even remember who you zapped last night?” Tim asks.  
  
John mimes giving him a slap upside the head. Tim laughs and dodges away; bumps into another boy as he does. “Whoops, sorry—” he says easily, before stopping. “Oh.”  
  
The boy – young man, really – who’d dashed into the tunnel yesterday smiles nervously at John. He’s as fine boned as the little girl, and John can see more than just a little similarity in their features. _Siblings, then,_ he decides. The boy is dressed neatly and he’s noticeably cleaner than the other kids. Alarm bells go off in John’s head. _Extra cash or food… or just a clean bed and a shower in exchange for services rendered…_ It’s just a suspicion, but John hasn’t lived as long as he has by ignoring his gut.  
  
The boy clears his throat and says, “Ah, I— I want to thank you, for saving Hannah yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t say it then.”  
  
John smiles; tries to hide the suspicion lurking under his skin. “It’s fine. You had more important things to worry about. Is your sister okay?” He holds his hand out. “I’m John, by the way.”  
  
The boy’s handshake is firm, for all his nervousness of speech. “I’m Daniel. And she is. Okay, I mean.” He grins but doesn’t correct the label of ‘sister’, John notes. “She was asking about you last night, but, ah, I thought it would be better if she got some sleep. And, um, I know who you are. We all do.” Daniel looks around, and John is suddenly conscious of the fact he’s the focus of a small crowd _again_.  
  
Under so much attention, he’s gripped by the urge to do something ridiculous – like waving, Queen of England-style – but before he can act on it, Barsad returns. He glances at their barely touched food. “You’ll want to eat that,” he says brusquely. “You will be assisting the construction crews. It is not work to be done on an empty stomach.”  
  
Assisting the construction crews? How many of those workers knew what happened with Bane last night? Nervous, John hastily shovels the porridge into his mouth, barely tasting it. The boys do as well, but with far less anxiety. As they eat, Barsad lists their work orders: they’ll be ferrying bricks and mortar to a southern tunnel. They’re going to be bricking it up, apparently. John realises with a start that it must be the tunnel Commissioner Gordon went down.  
  
_So that’s one way out gone, if we'd needed it,_ he thinks grimly. He wonders if he’d been put on the job for that point to be made. He wouldn’t put it past Bane.

 

* * *

 

The work isn’t hard but it _is_ labour intensive. The tunnel they’re bricking up is wide, and located much further in than the area John had found the Commissioner – likely to prevent it being seen by DWP workers cleaning the grilles. They perform the work under Barsad’s watchful eye, although there’re only a small number of construction workers working alongside them. To John’s relief, they seem to regard John and the boys neutrally.  
  
John’s worked construction jobs before and Emilio’s been working in the tunnels for close to a month now, but at the two hour mark, Mark and Tim’s strength starts flagging. They haven’t worked like this before and, in any case, they’re young. John casts a worried at Barsad. When Barsad meets his gaze, he looks back at the boys pointedly.  
  
Barsad’s expression is so dispassionate John starts to think he won’t do anything. But, after a minute, he stops Mark and Tim with a hand on Tim’s shoulder; they fidget under his gaze. “Go back to the central section. Tell the cook, Aguda, that Barsad sent you to help him prepare. He has a bad shoulder. You can cut the ingredients for him.”  
  
John waits until they’ve disappeared around the tunnel bend then turns to Barsad. “Thanks.”

Barsad shrugs. “They had best learn to work longer periods. They won’t be spared working construction forever. And you are still expected to finish this, even though you are two down.” He ignores the protests of the construction workers. John winces.  
  
_Then why let them go at all?_ John wants to ask, before common sense asserts itself. Don’t badger the guy who’s in charge of your work orders – and has a gun. “Well. Thanks anyway.”  
  
Barsad shrugs at him again. John grabs another brick; does his best to ignore the glares of the workers.  
  
He works mechanically for a while before he feels that now-familiar prickle that suggests he’s being watched. He looks out the corner of his eye. Five or so kids peer at him from around the tunnel bend. They vanish as soon as they realise he’s looking.  
  
It happens another eight times over the next hour.  
  
Then, from right behind him:  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“ _Jesus!_ ” John nearly jumps out of his skin. He swings around. A girl in her late teens stands in front of him, uncomfortably close. He looks immediately at Barsad, but the man makes no move to wave the girl away. He seems almost curious himself.  
  
She’s a slender Eurasian girl, almond-eyed and lovely. She appears to be one of the few girls working in the tunnels. She stares up at John from beneath lowered lashes, in what she probably thinks is a coy look. John’s immediately wary.  
  
“Hey,” she repeats.  
  
“Hey,” he says neutrally, trying to subtly reclaim his personal space. He glances past her. There are more kids at the tunnel bend, watching. He narrows his eyes. He’s pretty sure he knows what’s going on here.  
  
“I’m Cheshire,” the girl says, drawing his attention back. She’s leaning against the wall with her arms crossed beneath her chest; with her scoop-necked shirt, he’d get a good view of her breasts if he looked down. John keeps his eyes resolutely on her face.  
  
“That’s really your name?”  
  
“Well, my name’s actually Jade, but everyone calls me Cheshire,” she says with a giggle.  
  
“Jade sounds nicer.”  
  
Her smile widens a little. She looks back down the tunnel before looking back at him. “Is it true, what they’re saying about you?”  
  
“Of course it is,” Emilio says suddenly, his voice defensive. John puts a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Is what true?”  
  
“That you took out eight guys,” she looks at Barsad, a little nervous, but he gives her the same bland look he gave John. “And that you protected Hannah from that paedo.”  
  
“I had a taser,” John says evasively.  
  
“ _Shit,_ so you _did_ take them out? Even if you had a taser, that’s… that’s still pretty good.” Her smile turns sly. “We were listening to what you were saying last night. And it’s not the first time someone’s tried something with one of us, down here. It’s not usually someone as little as Hannah, but. Well. Some of us were thinking, since you’re pretty good at… taking care of people—” she uncrosses her arms and her hand brushes John’s arm, seemingly accidental.  
  
_Jesus._ John jerks away. “Let me set something straight here,” he says, setting the brick he’s holding aside. “I’m not going to touch you. _Any_ of you,” he raises his voice to encompass the kids listening at the tunnel bend. “Whatever I end up doing down here for you guys, I’m not expecting _any_ kind of favours in exchange, okay? And if you offer, I’m just going to say, ‘no thanks, jailbait’s not my thing’. That’s not what I’m here for. Maybe I didn’t make that clear last night. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d have to. But I’m making it clear now. Okay?”  
  
Jade’s cheeks flame red. Several of the kids look at the ground, although a few meet his gaze.  
  
After a heartbeat, John looks down as well. Unhappiness seeps into his bones. Fuck. So some of them had already been molested, or at least been propositioned. He’s vaguely aware of Emilio shooing Jade and the other kids away. John doesn’t watch them go; looks away instead. Ends up meeting Barsad’s unreadable stare.  
  
Barsad’s mouth quirks into an almost smile.  
  
John works silently until Tim comes to fetch him for lunch. When he returns to complete the brickwork, Barsad’s nowhere to be seen.

 

* * *

 

Bane summons Barsad to him, immediately after Barsad returns from reporting to Talia and collects his dinner from Aguda.  
  
They conduct their discussion in Darija.  
  
Although there are more than a few Arab men in Bane’s army, they all hail from Lebanon, Palestine or Iraq. Over the years, Bane has found there is little need for private rooms or complicated subterfuge around his men when the simple barrier of language will often suffice.  
  
“Your thoughts, Barsad?”  
  
Barsad barely pauses in eating. “On?”  
  
“Our newcomers. Blake, in particular.”  
  
Barsad looks up at that. He chews his mouthful thoughtfully; swallows, before saying, “He’s… an object of much interest to the children. He had an almost continuous stream of gawkers whilst he was working today. Some of the children appear to be testing him.”  
  
“Testing him how?” Bane’s back aches, despite the familiar numbness in his skin. It’s a dull, _irritating_ throb, crawling up his spine, radiating along his shoulders. The pungent, spice-rich smell of Aguda’s cooking gives him a headache. Bane picks up a length of cord, starts knotting it. Rote motions to take his mind off the pain.  
  
“Word has spread about how he overcame our sentries. And his protection of the girl. Some of the children attempted to offer him sexual favours in exchange for his protection.”  
  
Bane grunts. The language of the street and the currency of the powerless. It repulses him, though he understands how the powerless may view it as the path of least resistance. “And?”  
  
“And he refused them. It was quite the little speech. He’s becoming something of a celebrity, and all in two nights.” Barsad says, voice sardonic.  
  
Bane undoes his finished knot. Begins again. He narrows his eyes. He’s unsure what to make of Blake. The man – and he _is_ a man, Bane had checked the birth date on his license, although his face is bafflingly boyish – is clearly impetuous, almost fatally so. He’d goaded Bane to anger, heedless of the consequences to himself. And he is apparently – by Barsad’s account – charismatic, even if only to children.  
  
In Bane’s experience, charisma twined with recklessness can only be dangerous. It births visionaries; fanatics; leaders of loyal armies.  
  
Or leaders of child armies.  
  
Aimed in the wrong direction, Blake could disrupt their plans just by existing.  
  
“Continue monitoring Blake. See how the children respond to him.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Bane frowns, dissatisfied. It seems inadequate; second-hand knowledge can only provide him with so much insight into Blake’s motives and capabilities. After a moment, he adds, “Bring him to me tomorrow. I wish to speak with him.”  
  
Barsad nods. Bane returns to his knots, confident it will be done.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: references to child sexual abuse

John opens his eyes to cold, grey dimness.  
  
It must be early; the heavy duty work lamps haven’t been switched on yet and there are only the safety lanterns to see by. To his right, he can just make out the shape of his boys, still flat-out asleep in their cots.  
  
He isn’t the first to wake. John can smell freshly brewed coffee, somewhere nearby. The craving ignites under his skin. Whoever is making it had better damn well share. John wonders what he could offer in exchange. Then, unbidden, his mind recalls Jade and the attempt to barter sex for protection. The kids had been testing him, sure. But John is certain they’d only tried because it had worked in the past.  
0Mood suddenly sour, John rolls onto his other side, intending to go back to sleep.  
  
He ends up almost nose-to-nose with the little girl he’d tried to save. _Hannah_ , his memory supplies belatedly. She’s sitting on the floor beside his cot. Up close, she’s even more sweet-faced.  
  
John blinks. “Uh… good morning?”  
  
She looks at him with her dark eyes for another second before timidly offering up a mug of coffee. John experiences one, two heartbeats of delighted wonder before he realises the coffee is piping hot. He sits up and takes it from her hurriedly. “ _Whoa_ , okay, careful.”  
  
“Hannah? Where did— oh.” Daniel appears, cradling his own mug of coffee. He smiles tiredly at John. “She took my first cup. I, ah, should’ve known she was coming to give it to you.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“...because you saved her?” Daniel stares at John like he’s slow.  
  
John laughs. “I meant: why give me coffee specifically?”  
  
“ _Oh._ She, um, saw how much you liked the coffee yesterday. She kept bugging me for some so she could give it to you. I kept telling her you wouldn’t drink coffee at lunch and dinner too, so she must have been waiting for this morning.” Daniel laughs a little. Hannah gets up to cling to his pants leg. She peers at John from behind that shield, expression shy.  
  
John snickers into his coffee. “Shows what you know.” To Hannah he says gently, “Thank you for the coffee.” He smiles at her, the dimpled smile he uses on grouchy old ladies waiting in line at the grocery store and on apathetic bank tellers, the one that always gets him an automatic smile back. This time is no different and she turns toward him like a sunflower, beaming. Pleased, John spends the next few minutes communing with his coffee. He puts the mug down only because he can’t drink the dregs.  
  
He turns to Daniel – opening his mouth to ask _why_ a girl so young is down in the sewers – when he hears footsteps, loud in the main chamber. There’s a _clack_. Harsh light spills across the tunnel floor - the first of the work lamps being switched on. John squints. Some of the kids grumble sleepily and roll over, or throw arms over their faces.  
  
The footsteps come down the tunnel. Dazzled by the light, it takes John a moment to recognise Barsad coming toward him.  
  
“Do you not _sleep_ or something?” he says, when Barsad is close enough that he doesn’t have to raise his voice. John’s pretty sure he’d seen Barsad return to the tunnels at close to midnight.  
  
Barsad takes in Daniel and Hannah, and John’s empty coffee cup, before saying, “Of course. But not all of us lived in American luxury, and are capable of waking with the sunrise.”  
  
American _what?_ “We’re underground. There is no sunrise. And what luxury? I’m pretty sure my savings account is in the negative digits.”  
  
“You take owning a savings account for granted, as you do many other things. Privileged.”  
  
John files that away. “Did you actually want something, or did you just want to talk about Evil Capitalist Americans at ass o’clock in the morning?”  
  
“Bane wishes to speak with you.”  
  
John’s stomach drops.  
  
For all his righteous fury at Bane two nights ago, the anger – and the courage that had come with it – has since faded from him. It left only the memory of being pinned down and helpless – twice now – and he’d since avoided going near the stairs to Bane’s quarters if he could help it. “I— why?”  
  
Barsad shrugs. Maybe he’s used up his daily words quota, John thinks sourly as he gets out of his cot and follows Barsad out.  
  
He tries not to feel like a man walking to the gallows.

Barsad stays silent as he leads John to Bane’s balcony. It makes John jumpy, nervous. For one stupid moment, he considers picking a fight with Barsad so as to avoid facing Bane— but no, because that would be insane. Barsad would probably just shoot him in the leg and then drag him to Bane anyway. John broods on that as he enters Bane’s balcony headquarters.  
  
The second John crosses the threshold, Barsad turns on his heel and leaves.  
  
John spins around, alarmed. “ _Wait—_ ” but Barsad doesn’t turn back, just goes around the corner and out of John’s sight.  
  
_He’s alone with Bane._  
  
The thought makes him instantly shivery with fear. He wishes he hadn’t had that coffee now.  
  
Reluctantly, John turns around.  
  
Bane is sitting on his stack of cargo containers again. He’s as huge as ever, posture still ram-rod straight, although he’s mercifully not swaddled in shadow this time. John’s not sure his nerves could take it if his first glimpse of Bane in two days involved Bane channelling Jason Voorhees.  
  
_Shit, don’t think about horror movies._  
  
Bane takes a long rasping breath. “You say you are here for the children.”  
  
John says nothing. He starts mentally preparing an abbreviated version of what he’d said to Emilio and Jade. So it comes as a surprise when Bane’s next words are: “How exactly do you intend to help them?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“How exactly do you intend to help them?” Bane repeats slowly.  
  
John tries to keep the incredulous look off his face. He’s pretty sure he fails at it. “You remember what happened with that little girl, Hannah, right?”  
  
“Of course. But it is unlikely to happen again. The message has spread amongst the workers and my men.”  
  
John thinks again of Jade. Of Daniel’s neat – _too_ neat – appearance. Bane’s dismissive confidence rankles. It sounds too much like what he’s heard from the cops, from the adults in his life before Father Reilly. People who were supposed to _protect_ children, but dismissed their claims because they didn’t want to admit to society’s failings.  
  
“Unlikely to happen again? You _seriously_ think that? Those workers or your guys— I don’t know who, but some of them have been fucking the older kids. And I can tell you now that they’re probably not going to stop just because you— killed one man.” John’s proud of himself for barely stuttering there. “They’re probably telling themselves that it’s different because they’re not fucking a _little_ kid, or because they’re paying them. Well, there isn’t a fucking difference. So don’t talk like it’s some one-off thing you prevented. _It’s already been happening_.” He doesn’t want to be doing this. He doesn’t want to have another conversation with Bane, seeing as what he just said probably means he’s going to be on the receiving end of another beating, but _God_ , how arrogant can Bane be, thinking he can prevent dozens of men from submitting to their baser natures?  
  
_And how arrogant are you,_ part of him whispers, _for thinking you can do the same?_  
  
Bane’s grey eyes turn to flint. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. John backs up a step; casts a quick glance at the balcony exit. It’s only a few feet away, maybe he can—  
  
“You have evidence of this?”  
  
John stops and eyes Bane warily. “Not physical evidence, no. But one of the kids pretty much told me it happens. And then they tried making a deal with me: sex if I protected them from anyone else.” The thought makes him want to vomit his coffee back up.  
  
“The children were testing you.”  
  
“They wouldn’t have tried testing me if it hadn’t _worked_ in the past. If your men had just kept their dicks in their pants. Don’t dismiss what those kids told me just because you don’t like hearing your men are a bunch of fucking animals!”  
  
Bane’s eyes narrow. When he finally speaks, it sounds to John as if he’s a hairsbreadth away from losing his temper - his breathing sounds artificially long and deep. “I am not _dismissing it_. I said they were testing you. A thing may be true and still be twisted for other purposes.”

John glares at him, mutely furious, not least because he’d come to the same conclusion. But he’d actually been _present_ to make those observations about Jade and the other kids. How the fuck could Bane figure it out so quickly based only on what John had told him? The answer hits him after a second. _Barsad._  
  
In the meanwhile, Bane has looked away. “If it is happening, it _will_ be dealt with.” He makes a harsh noise under his breath and turns aside. Picks up a thick length of white cord from beside him and begins knotting it in short, jerking movements. He doesn’t look at John.  
  
John looks around and sees an upturned wooden crate near the balcony railing. Screw it. He sits down without asking permission. He’s not going to keep standing before Bane like one of his lackeys.  
  
After a few minutes of silence, the movements of Bane’s hands smooth out and he says evenly, “The question remains: aside from ensuring the children are not taken advantage of, what do you plan to do for them?”  
  
It’s unnerving. Like Bane flipped some internal switch and shut down the intimidating aura that was radiating from him a moment ago. It doesn’t even feel like John’s talking to the same person anymore. It feels more like an interview with a HR recruiter, distant and impersonal. Like one of those hypothetical what-would-you-do-in-this-scenario exercises that John’s always been kind of crap at.  
  
It feels _a lot_ like that, actually. What _is_ he going to do for them?  
  
Bane gives him a quick glance when he realises John’s going to remain silent. “Surely you had some plan beyond establishing solidarity with the children?” John thinks he hears a touch of disbelief in Bane’s voice and possibly some scorn, too.  
  
He flushes, his pride pricked. Honestly? He _hadn’t_. And he still thinks it’s important that he did that, damn it. But he’ll be fucked if he tells Bane that he doesn’t have a plan. He thinks back to his assessment of the kids’ state, the first night he’d come down.  
  
Wary of strangers. Decently fed but filthy. Cuts and bruises everywhere.  
  
“I need a medical kit,” he says slowly. “A _good_ one. The kind that comes with saline and burns sheets.” He glances at Bane, half-expecting the man to tell him to go get one himself, but Bane simply nods for him to continue, still tying his knots. He’s quite good at it, John notes. There’s surprising dexterity in those blunt fingers.  
  
John leans forward, forearms braced on his knees. “The kids have been getting injuries. Not big ones and they’ve probably been taking care of it them themselves. But based on what I’ve seen, they’re doing a crap job of it. Sooner or later, some of those injuries are going to end up infected and I’m pretty sure you don’t want your little work force slowing down. I’ve got first aid training. I can look after that stuff, since they clearly don’t trust your men to help them.”  
  
“They hardly trust you either.”  
  
“They trust me more than they do your men,” John retorts without heat. Bane’s bizarre calm has pushed his anger down in turn. It feels almost… civil.  
  
Bane inclines his head, acknowledging the point.  
  
John mulls it over a little more. “And they need a shower. Probably two, so the boys don’t get a free show. And the girls don’t get one, for that matter. I don’t care if they’re just buckets with hoses attached. They need showers.”  
  
That gets Bane to pause mid-knot. “Of all the requests you could make, you request showers?”  
  
John looks down at his hands. They’re narrow with long fingers. _Piano fingers_ , he recalls his mother calling them. He remembers she’d had the same hands. Remembers her hands brushing his hair off his forehead, soft and comforting, when he was little. It’s one of the few memories he has of her. But unlike her hands, his are rough and callused from years of manual labour, and there’s dirt under his fingernails. Without raising his eyes, he says, “Well, there’s the hygiene part of it. But it’s also— look, have you ever been homeless? For a while, I mean. Like, more than a few days?” _Or weeks, or months?_

“Not in a city, no.” It’s offered carefully, as if Bane’s not certain where John’s going with this.  
  
So he was homeless out in the country? John tucks that comment away for later analysis too. “Well, in a city, there’re people everywhere. All the time. I know, that sounds really obvious. But when you’re homeless, it’s like you become invisible to _all_ those people.” John wants to sigh. He’s always been crap at expressing himself. He struggles on, trying to make Bane understand that this is _important_.  
  
“It’s even worse, when you— when you don’t bathe for a while. People actually start avoiding you, not just pretending you don’t exist. And it gets to you, sooner or later. You start thinking you don’t really exist, or you’re worthless, or—” John stops. God, this is _humiliating_. He can’t believe he’s telling this to _Bane_. Bane’s not an idiot, for all that he uses violence as a solution for problems. He’ll know John’s speaking from experience. “You have a shower and suddenly you’re a person to the rest of society again. It means more than you may think,” he finishes quietly.  
  
“Is that all?” It’s a polite enquiry, not dismissive at all. When John looks up, he sees Bane is carefully avoiding eye contact with him. Possibly out of discomfort, but Bane doesn’t seem the sort to be discomforted easily. What then? Is he being _respectful_? John's mind boggles a little.  
  
“There may be other things they need,” John says eventually. “I don’t know. I’d have to ask them first and they need to trust me before they’ll tell me. But those are two things I _know_ they need.” He shrugs. “So that’s my plan. Patch them up when they need it, look out for what they need and let you know if they need it, since you’ll want them ready and able to work, right?”  
  
John looks at Bane carefully. If that’s not good enough for Bane, then he’s out of ideas.  
  
Bane nods. “It will take time for the showers to be arranged, but I do not see it posing any great difficulty,” he says. “In the meanwhile, it is best that you speak to Barsad about acquiring a medical kit.”  
  
_Just like that?_ Thrown off, John can only nod cautiously.  
  
Bane puts his cord down and finally meets John’s gaze. His eyes are sharp and darkly intelligent. It’s the first time John’s noticed. With those eyes, the cultured tones of his voice don’t seem so jarring. Then again, it’s also the first time John hasn’t been terrified for his life. “It is not a bad plan, for one that was devised on such short notice,” Bane says, and he is suddenly, _visibly_ amused. John tries not to flush in embarrassment. Bane tilts his head. “But why did you come down for the children at all?”  
  
John shrugs. “Someone had to. It was the right thing to do.”

It’s clearly not an answer Bane is expecting. John almost grins when all Bane can do in response is blink.

It’s satisfying to be certain, for once.


	11. Chapter 11

That meeting with Bane marks a strange transition in John’s status in the tunnels though, at the time, John scarcely notices it.

(When everything is over, he looks back and thinks: _yeah, that was the moment._ )

 Barsad wordlessly presents him with a medical kit the next evening, as the day’s work is beginning to wrap up. John looks at it, surprised. He hasn’t spoken to Barsad since the man took him to Bane, unable to find him once he left Bane’s quarters. Did Bane go ahead and tell Barsad to supply the kid? He must have. And just what is John supposed to make of that?

He realises after a beat that he’s left Barsad standing there awkwardly, still holding the bag out. John takes the bag from him, apologetic. “Thanks,” he says, giving Barsad the smile he’d used on Hannah.

 No reaction. Typical.

 John shakes his head and unzips the kit, checking its contents: rolls of bandages and gauze in different sizes; band-aids; saline packets; tweezers. There’s even a CPR face shield. Impressed, John looks up. “This is great, seriously. But is it going to be difficult for you to re-stock this?”

 “No more difficult than arranging for two portable showers to be brought down into a sewer.”

 “That’s not actually an answer,” John complains. Then: “Wait— _portable showers_? What are you, some kind of wizard now? And did you just make a _joke_?”

 Barsad’s mouth twitches as he walks off.

 

* * *

 

The remainder of his first week in the tunnels passes with little fanfare. A few more kids approach him, cautious but reassured by the ease that Emilio and Daniel – long-time residents of the tunnels – show around him. But the majority still hang back, hedging their bets. That’s fine. John understands their reticence all too well, and he can be patient.

But at the beginning of his second week, Barsad appears again, suddenly and silently, as is his wont. John, accustomed to Barsad’s cat feet by now, doesn’t even pause in his work. He’s ferrying a wheelbarrow of swept up cement dust and rubble away from the chamber floor, as the workers continue their drilling. They’ve moved higher, and John wonders if they’re going to continue all the way up to the ceiling.

Then he notices Barsad’s wearing plain clothes.

John stops – right in the middle of all the kids and workers – to gawk. So do several of the kids, although they hop quickly back to work when Barsad turns his gaze on them. John just keeps gawking.

Barsad isn’t wearing anything special; just a grey long-sleeved shirt and canvas shoes. He’s still wearing his usual cargo pants, even. But he is devoid of his rifle, his flak jacket and his ammo belt, and the difference it makes is startling. He looks _human_ ; slighter, less harsh around the edges and, frankly, _attractive_. John’s disturbed the instant he thinks it, but it’s true. Barsad’s an attractive man. And it’s not even because John hasn’t slept with anyone (man or woman) in months.

“Let’s go,” Barsad says, like he isn’t currently knocking John’s world askew. “We are getting supplies. There is a van ready.”

“What?” John says, still staring.

Barsad gives him a long look. “Supplies,” he says, drawing out the word. His tone clearly indicates he suspects John is dim. “We need food and water. Aguda says his stock is running low.”

John processes this. “We’re going shopping,” he says, equally slowly. It sounds absurd but it also makes sense. Barsad nods. “And… why am I going?”

“Bane says you know what the children require.”

“Oh.” John supposes he does, but not because many kids had told him. He only had to listen to the conversations that went on around him. Jade, for example, had complained loudly, two nights ago, that she was running low on tampons, which had brought on the equally loud – and predictable – disgust of many boys (“I _do not_ wanna be hearing about yo’ nasty-ass snatch,” had been Jalil’s protest. Jade had merrily given him the finger).

The kids need supplies, just as Bane’s men do. John thinks it’s probably a more desperate situation for them; there are only limited times they can go buy them, and limited people who can do it. They all run the risk of being picked up by the cops, but the younger kids are more likely to be. That leaves only the older kids, and they can only pick up so many supplies at once. But now, seeing as there’s a van to take him, John can grab all the supplies for them. And it’s _Bane’s_ idea, apparently.

Just as he did with the cots and medical kit, Bane’s neatly side-stepped John’s expectations again, leaving him feeling wrong-footed and uncertain in the new terrain.

Now, as Barsad gives him an impatient look for dawdling, John says, “I’m… just going to go ask the kids if they need anything else, okay?” He takes off before Barsad can stop him. It will only take him about ten minutes to locate everyone; they’re kept together in groups as they work.

The kids cluster around him, excited and eager to shop even though they won’t be the ones doing the shopping. Their reserve falls away – at least for now – in their excitement. And it surprises him, even as it doesn’t, the things they list as needed supplies. They’re street kids; accustomed to being frugal. But at the same time, they’re still _teenagers_. So alongside the pragmatic requests for toothpaste, tampons, socks, and batteries, there’re also requests for Oreos, Doritos, cans of Mountain Dew, and the latest issues of Maxim and Cosmopolitan.

He nixes the requests for alcohol and cigarettes.

“I won’t stop you from drinking or smoking if you somehow get a hold of them yourself. I’m not your parent,” he says serenely, when Jalil protests. Jalil’s eighteen; he can get his own smokes. “But I’m not going to be your supplier either.”

“Why you gotta be so lame?” Jalil replies, but without any irritation. He sounds almost pleased to be reprimanded, which makes John smile.

He returns with a list, hastily scribbled on the back of an old shopping receipt. Barsad’s eyebrows go up at the number of items on it. “Tell Bane he can take it out of whatever he’s paying me this week,” John says tiredly, not even wanting to argue about it.

“That won’t be necessary,” Barsad replies after a beat.

 

* * *

 

It’s a fifteen minute drive to the nearest Safeway, since this part of Gotham is predominantly devoted to gaudy nightlife attractions and bordered by municipal administration buildings. So far, they’ve been driving for eight of those minutes without speaking. Barsad seems perfectly content to drive all the way there in silence.

John can’t take it anymore.

“That crack you made about me living in American luxury… does that mean you’re not from America?” He doesn’t really care about the answer, Barsad can lie to him if he wants; John just can’t stand the silence.

“Do I _sound_ American to you?”

John considers Barsad’s accent, with its strange burr on the _‘r’_ ; the almost lilt to some words; his tendency to use fewer contractions than most people. “South Africa?” he guesses.

Barsad’s eyebrows go up at that and the surprise is clear on his face when he sends a quick look John’s way. “No. _”_

“But I was close, right?” John presses. “Where’re you from then?”

“ _North_ Africa.” And after a pause: “Morocco.”

John knows jack all about Morocco, other than that Simpsons Halloween episode and maybe the ten minutes of Casablanca he’d caught whilst channel surfing. Still, Barsad doesn’t look one bit Mediterranean or Arab. Hell, he barely looks tanned. John tells Barsad as much.

Barsad sighs. “You are not going to stay quiet, are you?”

“Nope,” John says easily.

He thinks he sees a flicker of… _something_ in Barsad’s expression and decides to try again: “Did you live in Morocco your whole life before you came here?”

“No.”

“So you moved?”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“Kenya.”

“Is that where you met Bane?”

“No.”

“Where did you meet him then?”

“Afghanistan.”

 _Christ_. John lets out an annoyed huff. It feels like he’s performing the conversational equivalent of a tooth extraction. Then he sees the slight twitch of Barsad’s mouth; it’s the same as when Barsad had avoided answering his question about the showers. He’s actually _enjoying_ being difficult, John realises. Or, more accurately, enjoying winding John up by being difficult. John’s eyes narrow.

He’s only ever been able to respond to people pushing his buttons by pushing back. It’s gotten him into trouble more than once, admittedly. But Barsad doesn’t have his rifle right now.

Fuck it, he’ll risk it.

He looks casually out the window and says, “You and Bane seem pretty close.”

“Yes.”

“Have you known each other long?”

“Years.”

“Have you known each other biblically?”

Barsad’s reaction is even better than he’d hoped. He actually _jumps_ ; his hands jerk – hard – on the steering wheel. And John’s just about to turn away from the window and give Barsad a shit-eating grin when he realises the van’s still skidding, that they’re careening toward oncoming traffic less than a yard away, and—

Oh _God—_ _ohshitohshit_ —

John’s grip on the grab handle goes white-knuckled; he doesn’t scream but it’s only because his heart is in his throat.

Tyres squeal. Cars honk, long and loud, and the world outside becomes a greyish blur through the window and John thinks distinctly: this is it, this is how I’m going to die, after—

And then Barsad – hands tight on the wheel – yanks viciously; manages to return them to their lane. The van fishtails, groaning under the strain, and Barsad counter-steers with frightening ease. He steadies the van and, after a beat, starts driving again.

The blood is roaring in John’s ears. Jesus. He swallows hard. His breathing comes out harsh and strangled; his heartbeat feels thunderous in his chest. He looks over at Barsad, wide-eyed, ready to apologize and—

—meets Barsad’s smirk coming the other way, before Barsad placidly looks back out at the road.

John stares.

“Did you just—” he chokes, before managing, “Did you just _fake driving into oncoming traffic_ to _fuck_ with me?”

“You tried baiting me,” Barsad says, to the tune of ‘you started it’.

John’s mouth drops open.

It’s unbelievable. It’s ridiculous. It’s an overreaction so extreme John can barely comprehend it and he ought to be goddamn _furious_. It’s—

It’s so _incredibly childish_.

The thought hits him so suddenly that John bursts out laughing. Shock and adrenaline edge it darkly toward hysteria but he can’t stop. It bubbles out of him, seemingly endless, makes him collapse against the passenger door. “That— that is so _amazingly fucked up_ ,” he manages to gasp out eventually, tears in his eyes. “You can’t— you can’t threaten me with a gun, so you threaten me with oncoming traffic, I mean _what the fuck_ , Barsad—”

Barsad gives him a narrow eyed look and smirks again.

 _What in the ever-loving name of hell,_ John thinks, amazed.

But talking to Barsad becomes easier, after that.

 

* * *

 

Even with his back to the chamber, Bane can pinpoint the exact moment the children spot Blake returning with their supplies. It is like a ripple of wind across a field; a rising susurration of voices – but easy to ignore. Bane has planned under far worse conditions – in the midst of battles; killing fields; interrogation rooms – so he keeps his attention on the computer screens.

However, when Blake enters the sewer proper, bedlam unleashes.

Bane hears thumps and clatters from all around as the children drop what they are doing almost immediately. The level of chatter escalates in both volume and pitch, concentrated in the direction of the eastern tunnel; the children clearly converging on Blake. The sound reverberates – rising as if it were a living beast scaling the walls – as the children exclaim over their supplies, impulsive and thoughtless.

And it only gets louder when his men and Daggett’s hired thugs – the ones Daggett had insisted Bane take on – join the fray. Bane’s men bark at the children to get back, to return to their work. The children’s behaviour has taken them off-guard. They react to the children as they would impudent League disciples, and Bane knows they will soon move to punish them, swiftly and firmly. It has been a long time since the League has dealt with children.

The last had been Talia.

Daggett’s mercenaries are even less elegant than Bane’s men; they swear loudly at the children, and Bane thinks he hears the familiar rattle of weapons being drawn, but not yet fired.

“ _Jesus,_ ” he hears Blake snap, voice sharp with anxiety and anger. “Just _back off_ and leave them alone for a minute, would you? The work will still get done.”

He still has not turned around, but Bane can nevertheless feel the tension ratchet up. It grows between Blake and the rest of the men like a palpable thing, filling the chamber, pressing in on everyone.

Bane gets to his feet.

Then: “Enough. Leave them be,” Barsad says. His voice is aloof, dismissive; secure in the knowledge that he will be obeyed.

Bane stops.

He listens to the efficient stamp of feet as his men obey his right-hand man; hears the confused, reluctant shuffling of Daggett’s men. There is a lull, then another slowly growing spike of excitable chatter from the children.

Interested now, Bane walks closer to the railing; close enough to hear better, but not enough to be seen. Sound carries easily in the chamber and, in any case, Blake and Barsad have moved away from the eastern tunnel to stand right beneath his quarters; Blake following Barsad as he comes to report, perhaps.

“Thanks.” Blake sounds startled.

“Before the next supply run, ensure that the children know they cannot react like that again,” Barsad says curtly. Curiously, there is no harsh bite to it, as there so often is when he reprimands one of the men.

“They’re just kids.”

“Nevertheless.”

“… Nevertheless _what?_ ”

“Just a general nevertheless,” Barsad says, voice dry, but Bane hears honest surprise in Barsad’s voice. It is slight, but Bane has known his lieutenant for the better part of a decade. No man talks back to Barsad.

Then again, Blake is an insolent whelp who has spoken back to _Bane_ more than once.

Barsad and Blake are still talking, and Bane hears Blake say now, “ _God_ , you’re irritating.” But he is laughing as he says it.

There is a lull; Bane thinks Barsad is about to dismiss Blake so he can report to Bane, when Barsad says suddenly, “What would you have done, had I not been there, and the men continued threatening the children?”

“… I don’t know. Gotten in the way?”

Ridiculous. _Foolish_ , Bane thinks.

“That is foolish,” Barsad says, echoing Bane’s thoughts, and _now_ there is sharpness in his voice.

“I don’t know how things work in your world, but I’m not going to stand by while a bunch of assholes point weapons at kids.”

“Big words. But ineffective if you do not have real threats of your own to reinforce those words.”

“What, are you offering to teach me to be threatening?” Blake asks; there is more disbelief than sarcasm in his voice.

“Perhaps,” Barsad says mildly.

Bane’s eyebrows go up.

Interesting. No— not merely interesting. _Surprising_. Bane is seldom surprised – by people, least of all – but he finds that he likes it, more often than not, when he is. Challenge keeps one sharp.

Less than a minute later, Barsad is climbing the stairs, slinging his bandolier back over his shoulders as he goes. His step falters at the threshold, when he sees Bane standing by the railing. However, when Bane looks him fully in the face, Barsad’s expression is unruffled.

“How was the supply run?” Bane asks, lapsing immediately into Darija. He is well aware that his tone loads the question with layers. He wonders if Barsad will lie to him; the likelihood of it is miniscule, but he wonders, regardless.

Barsad understands, and he answers both the ostensible and the real question. “We replenished Aguda’s stock. Blake found it necessary to ask the children what they needed, but they told him without reservation. The drive to the market was… eventful.”

Bane raises an eyebrow, and Barsad admits with a self-deprecating smile, “Blake attempted to bait me; I feigned losing control of the van in response.”

“… And this led to your camaraderie?”

Barsad shrugs. He hesitates – it is hardly noticeable, but Bane is watching carefully – before saying, “He would make a good disciple. If he can learn to think before he acts.”

“You did not befriend him for the purpose of recruiting him,” Bane says, smiling. He does not doubt Barsad’s assessment of Blake’s potential, though he cannot tell what Barsad is basing it off; Barsad is one of the League’s very best soldiers and a competent instructor besides. But he has never cared for the work of bringing in potential disciples.

“I did not intend to befriend him at all,” Barsad says, and all the dryness in his tone is directed inward.

 Bane gives him a long look and considers the situation carefully.

Barsad had held himself apart, when he’d first joined the League. He’d been too wounded, too indiscriminately vicious in his anger; striking out at anyone who attempted to teach him or discipline him. Teachers and students alike had regarded him warily. They’d been born in pain and suffering, every one of them, but Barsad’s raw martial talent made him dangerous. And though he is one of them now, that time spent apart had marked him, just as Ra’s al Ghul’s disfavour had marked Bane. The men regard Barsad with respect, but with distance also. They do not challenge him when he speaks to them.

But Blake, naïve and unaware, had clearly pushed back at Barsad, and like had called to like. It fits Barsad’s pattern of forming attachments paradoxically. Barsad hadn’t liked Bane either, when he’d first arrived at the League temple.

Until they’d quarrelled and Bane had struck him down.

Bane’s assessment of Blake’s charisma had been _right_ , and he now has evidence – in the form of Barsad, amazingly – that it extends beyond just children. It underlines the danger of allowing Blake to continue unchecked.

 _Charisma and recklessness creates leaders of armies,_ he thinks again. _Or leaders of child armies._

But Barsad’s suggestion of recruiting Blake has given Bane an idea.

 

* * *

 

He visits Talia the next night.

It does not happen often, although the risk of being caught is mitigated by the fact he can still wear a motorcycle helmet; moreover, Gotham’s police force has grown complacent at best and apathetic at worst. Nonetheless, it is usually easier to send Barsad to update Talia on their progress than for Bane to make the journey.

Talia is surprised but delighted to see him. He allows her to strip his jacket from him; to fuss about the tension in his shoulders; settle him down on a pristine white leather couch, in the penthouse modelled to the tastes of Miranda Tate. It amuses her to affect domesticity. And he indulges her, as he has always done.

“What brings you here?” she says, once she has settled on the couch beside him. Her eyes are already bright. She is lonely, Bane knows. Playing Miranda Tate affords her few relationships where she can be herself.

“We have an interloper, of sorts.”

“Robin Blake,” she says. Bane nods. He is sure that Barsad has already told her all the details.

“Is he causing problems?”

“Not as such,” Bane says, reaching out to pick up a glass ornament on the side table; light catches off its sides, dazzling and fleeting. It is as suited to Miranda Tate as it is unsuited to Talia. “But recent events have made me wonder: have you given any thought to what purpose the children could serve, once Gotham is under siege?”

“Does it matter?” Talia shrugs. “They will scrabble to survive, as all of Gotham will.”

“It may matter,” Bane says, leaning back, “If they can be persuaded to contribute to Gotham’s torture during the siege. And I believe they can be, if they have a leader to rally behind.”

“Not you?”

“They fear me.”

She is quiet. Then: “But they do not fear Blake.”

“They do not fear Blake,” he echoes. “And they are very close, if they are not already, to becoming devoted to him.”

Talia is silent. When he looks at her, her gaze is remote, seemingly focused on Gotham’s skyline and beyond.

A smile touches her mouth. “He is an orphan,” she says distantly. “He has never stopped defining himself as an orphan.” Bane knows she is not speaking of Blake. When she finally looks at him, the light in her eyes is like fire; lovely and terrible as an army with banners.

“Gotham’s orphaned children, rising up to tear down the city he loves,” she breathes. “It will be beautiful.”


	12. Chapter 12

“So,” John says, as he drops down to sit beside Barsad, “when’re you going to teach me to fight?”

Barsad glances at him but doesn’t reply immediately, instead returning to doing… something with his rifle. Cleaning it, John guesses, judging by the cloths and bottles Barsad has set out; he’s never cared to learn much about guns. He eyes Barsad’s rifle warily. It’s not the usual one that Barsad carries around – that’s resting on the ground beside him – but something much longer and heavier; a sniper rifle, undeniably deadly. Then again—

— _they’re all deadly_ , John thinks darkly.

The presence of the sniper rifle makes him sour; reminds him again that whatever Bane has them doing down here, it’s so far beyond of the realm of legal it’s probably punched through the other side. He still hasn’t asked why they’re doing all this tunnel work, though he thinks Barsad might tell him, if he asked.

He isn’t sure he wants to know.

“Do you actually wish to learn?” Barsad asks suddenly, interrupting John’s brooding.

Startled, John says, “Honestly?”

Withering look. “No, Blake, I want you to lie to me.”

“You have to pay extra for that,” John retorts. When Barsad snorts, John grins, his mood abruptly lightened.

It’s evening meal time and everyone is barely a quarter of the way through their food, excepting John and Barsad (and Bane, John supposes, but he’s never seen Bane eat; the man stays in his quarters during meal times). John’s always been a fast eater – ever since living with the Whittakers, who’d had four foster kids, plus two kids of their own – and he’d watched Barsad pick perfunctorily at his meal before getting up and fetching his guns. Then John had wolfed down the rest of his food and risen to join him.

They’re sitting on one side of the central chamber, a decent distance away from the kids and the rest of Bane’s men, and directly opposite the stairs to Bane’s quarters. John wonders if he’ll see Bane staring at them, if he glances up at the balcony.

Bane’s taken to watching John intently over the past week, ever since their last meeting. He stares particularly whenever John speaks to Barsad and it makes the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up. Though they’re nothing like the sudden, terrifying glares Bane had used when he was preparing to strangle John ( _twice_ ), they’re still hardly pleasant; too piercing, too probing for comfort.

Maybe he doesn’t approve, John thinks. But if that’s the case, Bane can go screw himself.

John genuinely _likes_ Barsad. For all he can be a blunt, sarcastic motherfucker, he also gets John’s jokes, he doesn’t judge John, and he doesn’t get pissy – never truly pissy, despite what the kids think. And he’s also the only one out of Bane and his men who hasn’t either: A) tried to murder John, or B) stared like he wanted to murder John. As he crosses the one month mark in the tunnels, John’s been finding that there’s much to be said for a man who doesn’t want to murder you.

Now, still working on his rifle, Barsad prompts, “Well? Do you?”

John leans back on his hands, considering. “I do think it’d be good to know. But it’s kind of like what you said last week. I mean, what good will martial arts training do me if I’m unarmed and I’ve got a gun pointed at me, right? Never bring a knife to a gun fight and all that. Though I guess in this case it’s ‘never bring your fists to a gun fight’.”

Barsad pauses at that. He seems to be finished with cleaning his sniper rifle and snaps it back together in neat, economical movements. He sets it aside and picks up his regular rifle, detaching the magazine as he goes. Then he thrusts the rifle, butt-end first, at John.

John recoils instantly. “ _What_ —?”

“Take it,” Barsad says calmly. “It’s not loaded.” He even shakes the rifle at John a little, like he’s offering a candy bar. A deadly candy bar.

Trying not to cringe, John reaches out and tentatively wraps his hand around the rifle-butt. It feels cold and foreign to the touch; it’s _unquestionably_ a gun. He brings his other hand up to grip the barrel and cradles the entire thing awkwardly. “Okay?” he says, throwing an uncertain look at Barsad, “Now wh—”

Barsad moves like a snake; twists abruptly to the side. He knocks the barrel aside, grabs the arm John’s using to cradle the rifle butt and yanks John forward and down; brings his other arm down across John’s elbow, trapping him in a painful joint lock. Off-balance, John gapes at the floor. The rifle dangles uselessly from his fingers and John becomes horribly aware that – should he apply more pressure – Barsad could easily break his elbow.

The whole process had taken three seconds, at most.

“Okay, _okay_ ,” John gasps out, trying not to wince. “I get it. Ninja-fu beats incompetent guy holding a gun.” He thinks he can hear jeering from Bane’s men, a few feet away and, when he cranes his head to look, he sees that not only are Bane’s men watching, but the _kids_ are too. Even worse, about a dozen of them have jumped up, frightened, but determined to— what, _rescue John from Barsad_? He’d grin if his eyes weren’t watering in pain.

Barsad lets him go and John immediately rights himself; waves his hands at the kids, placating. “It’s fine, guys, it’s fine. It was just a— a demonstration.”

The kids sit down reluctantly, although some of them give Barsad hard, mistrustful looks whilst they eat. Meanwhile, Barsad is snapping something at Bane’s men in that odd, foreign tongue that John can’t place at all; whatever he says, the men shut up immediately. Wordlessly, Barsad turns back and takes the rifle off John, slotting the magazine back in. When he glances at John, his blue eyes are solemn. “You do not like guns.” Statement, not a question.

“No. I don’t,” John says shortly, looking away. He can feel Barsad’s eyes on him, but Barsad doesn’t push.

Instead, he says, “Do you know how to fight at all?”

He’s not being a dick, John knows. He’s just being… Barsad. Still, John has to try not to sulk as he answers, “Not like you, maybe. But I got into plenty of street fights when I was a kid. I taught myself to fight.”

“I can tell.”

Now John really _does_ scowl; Barsad’s mouth quirks when he takes in John’s expression and he pushes himself to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To find somewhere to spar. Unless you want to do it here,” Barsad says, jerking his chin in the direction of Bane’s men.

Hell no. John gets up and follows him out. He has to wait while Barsad stows both his rifles away – looking for all the world like a father tucking his (deadly) children into bed – and then Barsad’s leading him down the southern tunnel, toward the wall John had helped build during his first week. Some of the kids have taken to drawing on it in chalk, John notices with a smile. It’s such a normal _kid_ thing to do that John can’t find it in him to mind there are little bats scribbled amidst it all.

Barsad takes a left before they reach the wall proper and they end up in a tunnel section that hasn’t been worked on by the construction crews. Scummy residue runs along the walls, and the walls and ceiling are curved, not flat like the more inhabited sections of the sewers; the air feels dank and there are some rickety-looking crates stacked toward the back. It looks a lot more like what John imagined sewers would look.

Barsad picks his way past some puddles, stripping off his ammo vest, scarf and jacket as he goes. John’s abruptly reminded that – devoid of all the layers – Barsad’s not much larger than he is. It makes being immobilised in less than five seconds that much more humiliating.

Barsad drops his discarded clothes onto a crate then turns to John, loose-limbed and relaxed. “Show me what you have taught yourself.”

John shifts uncertainly. Barsad’s just… standing there. “What, just— hit you?” He gets an exasperated look in response.

Well. Okay then. John shuffles his feet apart then lunges forward, throwing a punch right at Barsad’s face. Barsad directs it away easily and John stops in his tracks, feeling suddenly ridiculous. It feels so… _stilted_. This isn’t anything like how John’s used to fighting. He’s used to reacting without thought – fists and feet driven by blood rush, adrenaline and anger – and he isn’t sure how to just _show_ Barsad how he fights. He frowns and says, “This isn’t going to work.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t— this isn’t how I fight. I’m used to, you know, actually being _in_ a fight.”

Barsad tilts his head and considers John for a moment. Then he shrugs minutely and says, “We will do that then.” He shifts back into a fighting stance, to John’s alarm. “Defend yourself.”

John scarcely has time to absorb that before Barsad _moves_ and he swings straight at John’s face, elbow-first. “ _Fuck!_ ”

John jerks back, just managing to avoid the elbow strike and barely avoiding tripping over his own feet. Barsad closes in. His second strike catches John on the shoulder, but only because John had turned away in time to absorb the blow; otherwise, it would have been a direct punch to John’s chest. John’s arm goes numb.

The next minute or so becomes a blur of action-reaction. It _is_ a little more like what John’s used to, but that’s about all he can say.

He’s never been so hopelessly outmatched before.

John gets his arms up in front of his face; defensive, like a boxer. He rotates and ducks to take as many of Barsad’s hits to his shoulders and forearms as he can stand, although each blow is a white-hot bloom of pain followed by tingling numbness. Whenever he can – and the opportunities are _extremely_ limited – he strikes out at Barsad.

John fights dirty. It’s the only way he knows how. Even so, he thinks he’ll be doing well if he lands even _one_ hit on Barsad. John aims without hesitation for Barsad’s knees, his groin, and his eyes. He thinks there’s approval on Barsad’s face at that, but he can’t tell for sure – he’s too focused on not getting his face beaten in.

Barsad ends the torture eventually, diving straight into John’s personal space. He palm strikes John square in the chest, knocking him off-balance, and hooks a foot around John’s ankle at the same time. In one smooth sweep, he knocks John’s feet out from under him. John squawks as he goes diving head-first toward the concrete—

—except Barsad lunges, lightning-quick; he grabs John by the back of his shirt, arresting his fall. John sags for a second, stunned and limp like a ragdoll, before Barsad hauls him backward then lets him go.

John lands heavily on his ass, but it’s still better than losing all his teeth to the concrete floor.

“Hmm,” is all Barsad says as he walks to the back of the tunnel to sit down on a crate.

“We can’t all be sharp-shooting ninjas,” John grumbles. He picks himself up, brushes himself off and goes to sit on another crate next to Barsad.

“You are not as bad as I had feared,” Barsad says.

“Only because you thought I couldn’t fight at all, right?”

Barsad almost pouts. “Do not ruin my punchlines.”

Despite his wounded pride, John grins. “Sorry,” he says insincerely.

Barsad drums his fingers on the side of the crate. His voice is clinical when he says, “You are fast and you have good instincts. You did not hesitate to target weak points. You deflected some blows.” John can hear the yet-to-be-voiced _‘but’_ coming.

“But…?”

“But you fight like a larger man. You spend too much time standing still, absorbing blows. You are so _light_. You must move more when you fight.”

John thinks of how Barsad had been constantly circling him. How John had wasted time and energy, twisting and turning on the spot as he desperately tried to keep Barsad in his line of sight. He can see the sense in that, so he nods and says, “Okay. What else?”

Before Barsad can reply, there is a shuffling noise from the tunnel mouth.

John looks up; jumps when he sees Bane standing there. _Christ_ , how does a man so big move so quietly? Surprise takes control of John’s mouth and he blurts sarcastically, “Coming to check up on us, dad? You don’t have to worry; we left the door open and everything.” The second he says it, he’s cringing internally; Bane hadn’t even _done_ anything to warrant his antagonism.

Bane says nothing.

Barsad throws John a disbelieving look but, after a beat, rallies valiantly to say, “If you have secret motives in asking for training, we are stopping now.”

Thank God for Barsad. Relieved, John grins. “You’re not my type, scruffy.” Not _entirely_ truthful, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, but John doesn’t go for straight guys. That way lies days of alcoholic binge drinking and self-loathing. John’s got no interest in that.

Bane is looking slowly back and forth between them, his eyes unreadable. John has to purse his lips lest he say something else moronic. Finally, after a loud inhale, Bane says, “One of the children started a fight during the evening meal.”

Anxiousness floods through John. Bane wouldn’t show up if it was just a little roughhousing, would he? Oh _God_ , what if one of the kids started a fight with one of _Bane’s men_? He jumps up immediately. “How serious is it?”

“One of them is bleeding, but that is the extent of it.” After a pause, Bane admits, “The child will not permit my men to assist him.”

“Take me to him,” John says grimly. Barsad silently gets up and walks alongside him, for which John is absurdly grateful. Walking alongside Bane isn’t half as nerve-wracking with Barsad beside him. Still, the nerves are there, and John never could stay still or quiet when he was nervous, so he asks, “Which kids were involved?” Not that he really expects Bane to know the kids’ names; whenever he happened to be on ground level during work periods, Bane’s eyes slid over the kids like they were furniture.

“The instigator was brought to my quarters,” Bane says. “He is the brother of the… child who drowned.”

John gapes. “ _Mark_? That’s got to be a mistake. He’s one of the least likely kids to pick a fight, _ever_.”

“There was no mistake. The men say the argument started over the boy’s brother.”

Over Jimmy? “Shit,” John mutters.

They emerge back in the central chamber and, even if John hadn’t already believed Bane, Tim and Emilio’s anxious faces confirm that what Bane said was true. There’s a cluster of kids gathered near the eastern tunnel, all talking at once. John pushes his way past them to find Sean, a sandy-haired fourteen year old, sitting at the centre. Like Mark, he’s not the type to stir up trouble. And yet, here he sits, hunched over with a thin shirt pressed tightly to the side of his face. John can see the blood blooming through it. What the _hell_ had happened?

He turns to Tim – the most level-headed of his boys, even if he’s also the mouthiest. “The med kit’s under my cot; go and get it,” he says then crouches down in front of Sean, checking him over quickly. Nothing leaking out of his ears or nose. He isn’t vomiting and his eyes are clear; pupils normal. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit in the head with a tray.”

John smiles mirthlessly. “Is that actually what happened?” At Sean’s nod, he adds, “Any dizziness? Do you feel sick? Any weird spots or anything like that in your vision?” He gets a ‘no’ for each question. John sits back on his haunches, relieved. “It doesn’t sound too bad,” he says then eyes the grubby shirt Sean has pressed to his face dubiously, “but I’ve still got to clean it up so it doesn’t get infected. It’ll sting a little.”

When Tim returns with the kit, John pulls out the antiseptic and some wipes. The injury turns out to be a gash, but thankfully not ragged or gaping. Sean probably won’t even need butterfly strips. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot, regardless of severity, John knows. As he works he says mildly, “You want to tell me what happened?”

Sean’s eyes water – John doubts it’s from the antiseptic – but he doesn’t say anything.

After a few more seconds of stubborn silence, he points out reasonably, “You can tell me or I can get Mark’s side of the story.”

“Go ask Mark then.” Quiet, subdued.

John sighs. He presses a clean wad of gauze to the cut on Sean’s head. “Keep that there until it stops bleeding. Come to me _immediately_ if you start feeling sick or dizzy,” he orders.

Sean nods. Without looking at John, he gives a muted, “Thank you,” and gets up, retreating almost instantly into the eastern tunnel. More than a few kids follow him in, already stickybeaking.

John packs the med kit up and looks up at Bane, who’s still standing nearby. He’d been watching, as seems to be par for the course nowadays. His grey eyes are blank. “You said Mark’s up in your quarters?”

Bane nods.

“I want to see him.” John hesitates then adds firmly, “I want to see him _alone_. I don’t want you to be there.” Partly because Bane unnerves him still, but mainly for Mark. Of all the boys, Mark seems to be the most afraid of Bane.

Amazingly, Bane doesn’t punch him for being demanding. Then again, maybe John’s being unfair. Their last meeting had involved zero attempted murders, after all. Bane simply nods at one of the men – not Barsad, who’d vanished at some point – and instructs him to take John up to his quarters then leave him alone. John can feel Bane’s eyes on his back, as he follows the guard away.

Once up the stairs, John edges nervously past the guard, who does as he’s bid and leaves instantly. The balcony is smothered in shadows and John can almost feel his pupils blow wide in the darkness. The only source of light is near Bane’s bed; cold, hard light from the LCD monitors on the walls. As his eyes adjust, John spots Mark, sitting curled up on the floor near the bed.

Even in the dim light, John can tell he’s been crying.

He approaches wordlessly and sits down on the floor, about two feet away. Mark glances at him then looks away. John looks at Mark’s knuckles and sees that they’re swollen; the skin is torn on some of them. Mark probably punched some walls, John guesses. He gestures to Mark’s knuckles. “You’re going to need to get those cleaned up.”

Mark sniffles for a little longer then says flatly, “I don’t care.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No. Yes… I don’t know. I— yes.”

John waits patiently. Mark’s never been the most talkative kid, even before Jimmy’s death. John had always figured it factored into his attachment to Tim – that boy talked enough for both of them.

Finally, his voice hoarse, Mark says, “Sean told me how Jimmy died.”

John’s gut clenches. That’s— not what he’d expected to hear. Two autopsies had found _nothing_. No foul play; no drugs or alcohol. What could Mark have found out that made him react so badly?

Mark scratches absently at his arm; picks at a scab on his elbow. “I couldn’t believe it. All this time, they knew how he died, but when we first came down and I asked around, none of them wanted to talk to me ‘cos they felt too fucking guilty. But Sean said he felt even guiltier for not telling me.”

“They who? And why would they feel guilty?”

“Sean and some of the other guys. He told me the day that— that Jimmy died, four of them were messing around. Following some of Bane’s guys down a tunnel, out to the basin. But they got lost and they ended up in this small tunnel. And while they were trying to find their way out, all this water just… came rushing down it. Jimmy was at the back, so he heard it first, and he warned them. Sean said the water was strong, but most of them got to this ledge on the side, right? But Sean—” Mark stops, choking on hiccupping breaths. John bows his head and waits. Finally, Mark continues, “Sean got his foot caught on something. And Jimmy— Jimmy jumped back into the water to get him out, because they couldn’t pull him out. But after Sean got out, the water just— just washed Jimmy away.”

Stunned, John stares out past the railing, at the open pipe right beside the balcony, with its torrents of gushing water.

Jimmy hadn’t been in danger. He hadn’t been, but he’d put himself in danger because someone else needed help. The senselessness of his death hits John like a punch to the gut; he hunches his shoulders reflexively against it. Jimmy had been perpetually sarcastic (weren’t they all?), lazy, and always on the lookout for ways to make a quick buck. But he’d also been protective, fiercely loyal; he’d prized his brother and his friends above all.

Distantly, John thinks he should be proud; he thinks he already might be, amidst the shock.

Mark’s sudden, harsh breathing brings John back to himself. _God, Mark._ Mark’s head is bowed but his next words are poisonously clear. “I hate him. _I fucking hate him_. I hate _Sean_ , and I hate _Jimmy—_ ”

And what to say to that? “Jimmy loved you,” John says quietly. It’s the thing Mark needs to remember most, but it’s also the only thing he can think to say.

But Mark responds to that with hard, vicious rage; John isn’t surprised. “ _He loved me_? He’s left me _alone_. Why would he do that if he loved me? How could he be so fucking stupid? Mucking around, following Bane’s guys. He was _safe_. And when the water came, he just— _got back in the water_. He was _my_ brother. He’s supposed to be here for _me_. But he jumped in to save some dickhead who was so fucking stupid he couldn’t even get himself out! He was my brother but he left me behind and I fucking _hate him—_ ” and here Mark breaks into rapid-fire Spanish, too fast for John to follow along. But he hears the fury and, moreover, the loss and the sorrow driving it.

He listens without commenting again.

Eventually, the fury runs out, spent as quickly as it had ignited. Mark’s shoulders slump. He leans suddenly, _heavily_ against John’s side, as if the anger had been the only thing keeping him upright. John has to bring his arm up around Mark’s shoulders and throw his other hand out to steady them both. Mark doesn’t shrug him off. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he croaks instead.

John is silent. He remembers the stupid platitudes that had swamped him when his father had died. ‘I know how you must feel’ and ‘He’s with God’ and – the one John had hated most – ‘He’s in a better place now’. They couldn’t have known how he’d felt, they weren’t him. And John hadn’t wanted his father to be with God or to be in a better place, he’d wanted his father to _be with him_. He’d resented the hell out of anyone who’d tried to speak to him.

So he says softly into Mark’s hair, “Sometimes there isn’t anything to say. But I can leave you alone for a bit, if you’d prefer. Do you want me to go?” Mark shakes his head against John’s side; John tightens his arm around him and hangs on.

 

* * *

 

In the end, he has to lead Mark out, shepherding him like a lamb into the eastern tunnel and into his cot. Sean gives Mark a wide berth – and _God_ , John’s going to have to talk to Sean too, the kid probably has survivor’s guilt a mile wide – but Mark barely notices him. He moves in a daze, like he did in those awful few days leading up to Jimmy’s funeral. And even though John knows – he really _knows_ – that grieving isn’t a linear process, he can’t help but feel like it’s a step back.

He walks back out into the central chamber. He can’t stand to be in the eastern tunnel at the moment – the atmosphere is thick with tension and he needs _space_. He needs somewhere to just _sit_ and process things for a minute. He needs somewhere devoid of people because he knows how he is. His grief will turn into pain, and the pain will turn into anger – he’ll want to hit something, hit _someone_ , eventually – and he doesn’t want to be around the kids when it happens.

But when he walks out, the first thing he spots is Bane.

He’s playing with string again, seemingly lost in thought. Most of the work lights have been turned off, but there are still some on in the direction of the southern tunnel.

They’re the only people in the chamber.

John marches up to Bane and stops two feet away, already breathing heavily. “Did you even realise he was missing?” he snarls, “Did you do anything to find him? Did you even _attempt_ to search for his body?”

Bane’s hands stop moving. His eyes slide sideways to look at John first, before he turns his head. His breathing sounds incredibly sinister in the dark. “No,” he says finally, not even bothering to dissemble. “We were aware of what happened. But we did not attempt to locate him, nor his body. It would have compromised us, had we attempted it.”

Grief slides seamlessly into rage; the fury boiling under John's skin erupts. He thinks he says something. Possibly. Maybe he just screams, wordless and primal. All he can think of is the horrible, empty expression on Mark’s face; the sorrow and the grief that resonates too sharply with John and—

John’s mind goes blank.

—when he comes back to himself, he’s swinging wildly at Bane; raw, uncontrolled punches that barely have a chance at connecting, they’re so poorly aimed. Bane’s lazily swatting away the ones that do come near him and it’s like punching at a gale, or a storm – completely useless. That thought, the confirmation that John’s fucking _powerless_ against Bane just makes him all the more furious; he swings his next punches harder.

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, lashing out at Bane with his fists. But eventually the ache in his shoulders and the burning in his muscles weigh him down. He drops his hands to his sides, sucking in long, harsh breaths; they burn on the way in. He’s sweating and his shirt sticks clammily to his skin.

“Do you feel better now?” Calm, polite.

John glares. What the _fuck_ —

Bane’s eyebrows lift and he spreads his arms. “Hit me again then, if you wish.”

John pants wearily. He wants to. _God_ , he wants to.

But then a thought creeps up on him.

If he takes another swing, it says, he’ll just be reacting to Bane. And that’s the problem. Reacting to Bane’s actions is what he’s been doing almost the entire time he’s been down here. Always reacting, never acting first. Even the discussion on getting supplies for the kids had arisen because Bane had pushed him into thinking about what he was doing.

John being reactionary all the time isn’t going to help anyone. Not him and especially not the kids.

His mind feels stripped bare after being vented of all the fury. It feels blessedly clear. He says, slowly, deliberately, “I want to set some ground rules.”

Bane’s eyebrows go up but he says nothing.

“The way things work around here need to change. Starting with the kids,” John says, his voice growing firmer. “From now on, anything to do with the kids is my territory. If something goes wrong, I don’t want your men taking matters into their own hands. I don’t want them dragging my kids in front of you anymore—” saying ‘my kids’ slips out so easily, he doesn’t even thinking about it, “—I want them to brought to me. I’ll deal with it. What happened with Jimmy—” his throat closes up for a moment, but he swallows it down and says, “—what happened with Jimmy isn’t going to happen again. I won’t let it.”

When Bane still says nothing, John hesitates then adds with a touch of reluctance, “And if anything goes wrong with your men, I’ll let you deal with it. I won’t try to interfere like I did with— with that child molester.”

At that, Bane finally makes a sound, although it’s just a thoughtful hum. He tilts his head; goes back to regarding John with that penetrating stare he’s been levelling at him for the past week. John stares back, trying to look firm without seeming belligerent.

Bane’s eyes aren’t actually just grey, he notices. There’s a muddy, brown-gold ring around the pupil that gives his eyes a green cast in certain lights, like the work lamps are doing right now. They’re really quite lovely, John thinks.

He doesn’t know where _that_ thought came from.

Bane’s eyes crinkle as John watches; is he _smiling_? “Your terms are acceptable,” Bane says lightly, leaning back.

John lets out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He leans back as well.

Bane walks away a short distance to sit down on a low ramp. He pulls out his string again, a red one this time, and starts knotting. Is that all he does? John wonders. Kill people and knot string?

He lingers on the spot for a second. He still doesn’t really want to go back into the eastern tunnel. So he wanders closer to Bane and says the first thing that comes to mind: “Why’d you let me throw punches at you for so long?”

Bane raises an eyebrow. “You were hardly in a position to harm me. And you seemed as if you needed the outlet.”

“So you let me use you as _punching bag_?”

Bane’s massive shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. It looks bizarre on him. “You appeared to need the outlet,” he repeats. “And I deflected all your blows. Even if they had connected, I am more than strong enough to bear them, Robin Blake.”

“Oh, thanks,” John says, half-sarcastic, half-complaining. “First Barsad, now you. I’m not _that_ crap at fighting. And it’s John, not Robin.”

“Very well, John. You are not that bad at fighting, perhaps. Barsad mentioned as such. But you could be much better. Barsad can make you better.”

“… You don’t mind him doing that?”

“Why would I? I am neither Barsad’s keeper nor yours.”

May as well be blunt; Bane seems to be okay with blunt. “You’ve been watching me pretty closely. I thought maybe you didn’t appreciate me talking to Barsad.”

Bane’s eyes crinkle again. “I have been observing you because you are a curiosity. It had nothing to do with Barsad.”

“Oh.” John almost asks, _‘What’s so curious about me?’_ but even in his head it sounds like he’s fishing for compliments. Fishing for compliments from Bane, which is just weird. And he’s not sure he can maintain conversation for much longer. He feels suddenly tired now, deep in his bones. Consoling Mark and flailing like a psychopath at Bane has worn him out; if he rolls into bed now, he probably won’t even wake at the coming of the Apocalypse.

He drags himself a few steps away then looks uncertainly at Bane. It feels odd, this… rapport or whatever they’ve just established. What happened to Jimmy is still a painful hole in his chest, but he doesn’t want to shatter the accord by saying the wrong thing. Not least because he’s just formalised a new status quo in tunnel hierarchy. John dithers for a moment then settles on saying, “I’m… going to go to bed. But— thanks. For letting me use you as a punching bag. I appreciate it. It's a _completely_ weird thing to do, but I appreciate it. So… thanks.”

Bane inclines his head. “You are welcome. Good night, John Blake,” he says genially.

John smiles at him, still puzzled. “Good night.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: references to child physical and sexual abuse

John doesn’t tell the kids about his deal with Bane.

He’s not sure he has the words to explain it without coming off like he’s trying to be their parent or their keeper. Though they’d been the ones to approach him first (with completely unacceptable terms), John’s well aware of how contradictory teenagers can be. They might be desperate for someone, _anyone_ to set boundaries, but they’re still clawing for independence; he knows better than to think he can just to foist his protection upon them.

The word, however, spreads much more quickly with Bane’s men – maybe Bane had told them outright – and John watches their faces closely over the next few days. Most seem unbothered, although they no longer bark at the kids unnecessarily, or shove them to move them aside; John has Bane’s backing now, and the men are understandably cautious as they test the new situation.

But there are some – only a small number, but still some – who stare unpleasantly at John during meal times, or when they pass him in the tunnels. They radiate casual menace – a threat, a _promise_ – and though the majority of Bane’s men aren’t hostile, John’s certain that if he got into a fight no one would move to intervene, and the knowledge sets him on edge. He sticks close to Barsad, whenever the man happens to be around.

“Does the crown rest too heavily on your head? Do you wish to give it back?” Barsad asks with faux-sympathy when John draws closer to him, and away from a pair of gunmen passing them in the tunnels.

“Fuck off,” John snaps. Barsad’s mockery is usually funny, and John can give as good as he gets, but the tension’s been wearing him down; he’s never been good with anticipation.

“Such wit,” Barsad says mildly.

But he trains John harder. After a week, he switches from probing John’s abilities to drilling John in techniques for disabling his opponents as quickly and brutally as possible. It’s hard and it’s painful – Barsad is not a gentle instructor and believes in learning through practical experience – but John learns. Slowly, with bruises mottling his skin and his muscles aching, he learns.

Neither of them questions the necessity of it. The men may follow Bane faithfully, but not all of them are as disciplined as Barsad. Their resentment of John’s interference is fierce, and Barsad can’t always be around; it’s only a matter of time.

Two, almost three, weeks pass until one afternoon – as John sledgehammers out some non-load bearing pillars – Jade appears beside him, too close, again. John doesn’t jump this time, simply raises an eyebrow at her and steps back to reclaim his personal space. But Jade makes no play at seduction. Her arms are crossed and there’s a furrow in her brow as she stares at him.

When John pauses for a break, she says, “Bane’s guys and the construction guys aren’t bothering us anymore. They haven’t bothered us for weeks now.” John almost smiles.

“Good,” he says, as evenly as he can manage. “They never should’ve tried to in the first place.” He turns to go back to work.

She stops him with a hand on his arm. “How’d you do it? How’d you make them stop?”

“Who says it was me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jade says scornfully. “Things started changing after you came down here. We never got included in supply runs before. We get to have showers now. We all saw Barsad give you that first aid kit. And now Bane’s guys aren’t grabbing at us or bribing us to fuck them.” John winces at her bluntness and she demands again, “How’d you do it?”

“Does it matter?”

That brings her up short. She gives him a long look. “No. I guess not,” she says slowly. After a while, she adds, “You really don’t want anything from us for this, do you?”

John shakes his head and sighs, exasperated. He understands their doubt, but sometimes—

Frustrated, he turns away from her and sledgehammers the pillar harder than he needs to.

But the news spreads quickly to the rest of the kids after that: John has the seemingly genuine ability to safeguard them, and he _still_ doesn’t want anything from them; hadn’t even said anything about it. It seems to make the last of their reservations fall away.

 

* * *

 

The days slide by, and John’s not entirely sure when or how his cot and the surrounding floor space becomes the kids’ main social hub. He thinks it probably started with Tim and Emilio. Nowadays, though, there’s always some permutation of kids sitting in his area, at all hours of the day. It means he gets no privacy from waking until sleep, but he doesn’t mind. It reminds him – in the very best way – of living at St. Swithin’s, where they’d lived four to a dorm and had been in and out of each other’s rooms until lights out.

Currently, he has Emilio, Jade, Jalil and Roy – a part-Navajo boy with incongruously red hair – sitting on the floor by his cot. John sits on the cot proper with Hannah perched on his lap, reading her a second hand copy of _Green Eggs and Ham_ he’d picked up on the last supply run. Even Sean is present, sitting on another cot nearby, and his presence, John is sure, accounts for Mark’s absence (and Tim’s, as he followed Mark out to keep him company). It’s been a month since the details of Jimmy’s death had emerged and Mark’s face still hardens into resentful lines when he looks at Sean. John’s not sure what to do about that. He’s not sure there’s anything he can do about it.

“Why do you think he wears the mask?” he hears Roy say; John doesn’t even have to guess who _‘he’_ is. He doesn’t pause in reading out loud to Hannah, but starts eavesdropping with one ear.

“This is, like, the hundredth time you’ve freakin’ asked. And like I’ve told you a hundred times, it’s just for show,” Jalil says, “like wrestlers in the _WWE_.”

“No way, he’s got to be messed up underneath it,” Jade says, tapping her own mouth for emphasis. “He never, _ever_ takes it off.” John’s eyebrow goes up.

“How do you know? Are you stalking him or something? Anyway, it’s gotta be to help him breathe. It sounds like a respirator.” Emilio.

Jade says contemptuously, “What kind of respirator looks like that?” almost at the same time Jalil says, “It sounds like Darth Vader.”

“Darth Vader ain’t got anything on Bane,” is Roy’s contribution, and he clenches his fingers like a claw. Whether that’s meant to mimic Vader’s Force choke or Bane’s more physical throat crush, John isn’t sure.

“John? What do you think?” Jade asks, leaning her arm on his cot. Her forearm touches up against his thigh, but John doesn’t brush her off. He knows her better now, knows she’s starved for non-sexual, adult touch, but can’t ask for it after years of the _other_ kind of adult touch. It’s enough to make John consider castration a perfectly justifiable punishment for child molesters.

“What do I think about what?” John asks, feigning obliviousness as he looks up from the book. Hannah makes a sulky noise and he shushes her absently.

“About why Bane wears the mask.” The _‘duh’_ in Jade’s voice is evident. “Is it to scare everybody, or to help him breathe or what?”

John considers it momentarily then shrugs. “I never really thought about it. I don’t think it’s any of our business.” And he doesn’t.

“Then you’re, like, the only person who hasn’t. And that was _such_ a boring answer,” she says, disappointed. The boys agree with her, and they turn back to their theories, cheerfully ignoring John. John shakes his head at them and goes back to reading to Hannah.

He thinks on it later, when the lights have gone out and the nighttime sounds of the kids drifting off surround him. The kids treat Bane like some sort of bogeyman – terrifying, but in an abstract sort of way, like Freddy Kreuger or Candyman; Bane’s actions aren’t entirely _real_ to them because he’s never actually touched one of them, unlike Bane’s men. Likewise, they don’t fully comprehend that the cots they sleep on and the supply runs John goes on with Barsad are due to Bane. And they definitely hadn’t witnessed Bane patiently letting John work out his grief and frustration against him.

Bane’s more complex, more human than they realise, but he can’t blame them for not realising; he’s only beginning to realise it himself.

 

* * *

 

The only time John doesn’t have kids sitting with him or dogging his steps is when Barsad comes to fetch him for training; they back away the instant they see him coming. Barsad weathers it with the same impassivity he does everything else, though John imagines it can’t be enjoyable, having people run at the sight of you.

But when Barsad approaches John today after the evening meal, his expression is… off.

“What is it?” John asks, the second the kids have made themselves scarce.

“We will not train today,” Barsad says. “I have errands that take me elsewhere.”

“… Okay?” John says uncertainly. They train most days, but not every day; Barsad’s never bothered notifying him either way before. If he doesn’t kick John out of bed early or fetch him after the evening meal, John knows they’re not training that day.

“You will train with Bane instead.”

John’s brain melts in horror. “I’ll be _what_?”

“Did I stutter?”

“What— _no_ , goddamn it, shut up,” John snaps, “what do you mean, I’m training with Bane? You’ve been training me for less than _two months_. I can’t even pin _you_ , never mind _Bane_.” John’s not terrified of Bane himself – not anymore, not since the night they’d re-drawn the lines in the sand – but actually fighting Bane? That’s _plenty_ terrifying.

Barsad scoffs. “Of course you cannot. But the goal is not for you to defeat him.”

“Then what is? Learning to work around being crippled?”

“ _I_ could cripple you. There would be no need to involve Bane,” Barsad says witheringly, and John has to concede that point. Barsad makes an imperious gesture. “Come.”

“Don’t I get a say in this at all?”

“Of course,” Barsad replies, unruffled. “But if you do not wish to train with him, you may tell Bane yourself.”

John makes a face at him, and he seriously considers just staying seated and putting his hands over his ears. If Barsad wants him to fight Bane or tell Bane he’s rejecting his training, well, he’ll have to drag John there. But then common sense asserts itself. Barsad _would_ drag him there, using that wiry, deceptive strength, in full view of everyone.

Pride makes John get to his feet.

“Was this your idea or his?” he asks as they walk.

“Both.”

God, so Barsad’s going to be like _that_. “Whose idea was it _first_?”

“Mine. But Bane agrees.”

“Why?”

“You have been sparring against only me. There is no guarantee your adversaries will be my size.”

“None of those guys are Bane’s size either,” John points out. When Barsad says nothing, John realises he means for John to figure it out on his own; John thinks it over silently until the pieces click. Then he says slowly, “You’re putting me up against Bane because you can’t have just anyone training against me. You can’t know for sure that they won’t just use it as an opportunity to jump me.”

Barsad nods shortly.

John sputters. “I just— I can’t believe they’re seriously out to get me because I stopped them from getting their dicks wet.” He says it as crudely as possible, wanting to illustrate how petty the grudge is. “They didn’t expect Bane to be _happy_ that they were fucking the kids and slapping them around, did they?” John remembers with crystal clarity the fury in Bane’s voice when John had accused him of being a danger to the kids.

“They did not,” Bane says, from right beside him.

John yelps and half-turns; he’d been so focused on talking to Barsad he hadn’t noticed they’d arrived. Bane looms in the entranceway; still huge, still intimidating, still silent like a ninja.

“They know you’re not happy but they’re going to try jumping me anyway?” John asks him, after he’s recovered.

“Their fear of my displeasure is wholly unrelated to their resentment of you.”

“Can’t you order them to just… not try shanking me?”

Bane’s voice is pitiless – made even more so by the mask – when he says, “You wanted this. You wanted to take responsibility for the children. That means taking on the risk as well – turn to me for protection at this juncture, and the men will not see your authority as genuine.” He pauses to ensure John’s listening – _really_ listening – then continues, “Currently, the only thing saving you from attack is their uncertainty and Barsad’s presence. But their uncertainty will fade and you cannot forever be in Barsad’s company. Best you learn to defend yourself now against any kind of attacker.” The _‘while you still can’_ remains unspoken, but hangs in the air. And with that, Bane gives Barsad a curt nod, dismissing him.

Barsad gives John one last glance – one which clearly says _‘be good’_ , like John’s going to be a disobedient _dog_ , or something – then turns and leaves without a word.

John broods. So he’s going to have to deal with Bane’s men alone, and they’re going to _leave him_ to deal with the men alone. John absorbs this resentfully, even though he realises Barsad and Bane are doing more for him than they need to. They don’t have to train him at all. But it’s cold, meagre comfort against the possibility of being knifed in the back any moment he’s alone.

Bane regards John for a moment longer then gestures toward the tunnel. “Shall we begin?” he asks pleasantly. It sounds almost _courtly_ ; like he’s inviting John to a formal ball, not a lesson in how to shatter eye sockets and dislocate kneecaps. Despite his anxiety, John snorts. Bane looks at him keenly but doesn’t ask what he finds so funny.

Bane wants to see for himself what John’s capable of, so he works John through the warm-up exercises and then the katas Barsad had taught him in that first week; the familiarity of it settles John’s nerves, and he’s pleased that at least he’s not as shit as when he first started with Barsad.

However, once they move on and John starts tiring, Bane sees _plenty_ to find fault in.

Bane doesn’t teach like Barsad teaches; he doesn’t kick John in the back of his knees or shove him around to move him into the proper form. Bane’s less hands-on and far more verbal than Barsad, but he’s also relentless, making John practice a form over and over until he gets it just right, and he’s unflinching in his criticisms as he batters John around the room—

—John’s back is too stiff during _kokutsu-dachi_. His stance is off-balance. John needs to lift his knee higher. John needs to extend less, protect his flank; not waste time aiming _there_ when the face is vulnerable; roll with the punches, and _stop trying to take the blows, John_ —

“—Okay,” John gasps out, holding his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. Bane _does_ believe in surrender, right? The world wavers uncertainly and his ears are ringing from the last blow, which he hadn’t managed to avoid in time. “Okay, time out. Just— I need a minute. Maybe ten. Or thirty. Yeah, let’s make it thirty.” John’s drenched in sweat and his muscles are screaming in agony. How long have they been _doing_ this?

Bane simply grunts in acknowledgement and walks to the back of the tunnel, toward the crates. John follows him, near-hobbling. He wonders if the crates will even hold up under Bane’s bulk, but they’re the only things available to sit on; maybe John should drag some chairs down next time.

Assuming he’s alive for a ‘next time’.

He sits down gingerly – Bane had knocked him onto his ass four times and his tailbone _hurts_ – whilst Bane lowers himself with much more composure. The crate holds, although John thinks he hears a creak every time Bane shifts. For a while there’s nothing but the sound of Bane’s even, steady breaths and John’s wheezing as he tries not to die.

Suddenly, there’s a water bottle in his face.

John stares for a second, uncomprehending and slightly cross-eyed, and then he’s falling upon it greedily. “Oh thank _God_ ,” he gasps out, pathetically grateful and cheerful, after he’s drained half of it. “I was _this_ close to yakking up my food. Thanks.” He offers the bottle back, waving it thoughtlessly at Bane, before his brain catches up with him; he looks up, eyes wide.

Bane doesn’t seem to care, simply taking the bottle and setting aside. But John suddenly remembers the kids’ conversation held next to his cot, and he blurts, “Why do you wear the mask?”

Bane gives him a long, unreadable look. “Why do you wish to know?”

John shrugs; concern that he’s overstepped nibbles at him but he ignores it. “Some of the kids were wondering.”

“But not you?”

“I didn’t think it was any of my business.”

“But you asked, regardless, on behalf of the children.” There’s definitely amusement in Bane’s voice, like he finds the way John behaves whenever the kids are involved precious, maybe.

John huffs. “You don’t actually have to tell me. I was— making conversation. I just didn’t want thirty minutes of silence while I catch my breath.”

“You would catch your breath faster if you did not talk,” Bane replies, and the words, although not so much the tone, are so reminiscent of Barsad that John laughs.

“Yeah, if you want me to catch my breath faster, making me laugh kind of works against that,” he says, grinning.

Bane lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Relaxed by laughter, John lies back across two crates, his hands behind his head. Thirty or so minutes of silence isn’t so bad, he supposes.

Of course, that’s when Bane takes the opportunity to say, “I require the mask at all times. I would be in indescribable pain without it.”

Startled, John looks over at him. So the mask is— what, a way of delivering pain relief? But then the implications of Bane’s statement hit him. “You can _never_ take it off?”

“No.”

John studies Bane in profile; takes in all the details of the mask. How must it feel, he wonders, to be cut off from all taste and smell? To wear the mask and know it’s the first and last thing people remember about you? Then again, maybe Bane _likes_ the fact people pay attention to the mask; it effectively deflected attention away from him as a person.

Bane hadn’t revealed _that_ much about his mask, but John gets the feeling it was more than he revealed to most. “You don’t— you _really_ didn’t have to tell me anything,” he says again.

Bane tilts his head in acknowledgement and they settle into silence again. Still, John feels awkward, like he’s left Bane hanging after he’d revealed something so clearly private. He casts about for some way to continue the conversation.

“I remember when I was twelve,” he says finally, “and I was given morphine in hospital. I was pretty messed up, so I was on it for a while. I remember that when I was on it, it felt— awesome. But whenever I was off it, I hated it. I needed it and I hated the fact that I needed it. It was like—” he stops, searching for words. It’s paltry, but it’s the closest he’s got in his personal history to Bane’s admission that he’s essentially on pain relief 24/7.

“Like your body was not your own,” Bane finishes darkly. He sounds like he knows all too well.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Inhale, exhale. “You said you were twelve. What happened to you, for you to be administered morphine at such an age?”

John balks. He frowns at the ceiling. He’d been trying to maintain conversation, sure, but telling _that_ story seems like overkill. He’s never talked about it with anyone, beyond the cops who’d taken his statement. “I doubt you really want to hear my childhood sob story,” he says eventually.

“I would not wish to hear it or you do not wish to tell it?”

“You don’t want to hear it,” John lies, mouth thinning. If this had been Barsad, he would’ve backed off already.

“Whatever your story may be, it would not shock me. I am not a stranger to pain. And I know well the depths that people can descend to, the atrocities they are capable of.”

 _Is it because you’ve committed so many of them yourself?_ John almost says, before he stops himself; picking a fight to avoid conversation would be being reactionary again. “Fine,” he bites out. “I just don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“Would it make you feel more comfortable if I told you of my childhood?” It’s not a genuine offer, there’s a hint of challenge in Bane’s voice and John stares. Who actually _says_ things that?

“ _No_ , it wouldn’t,” he snaps, sitting up. He eyes Bane, suspicious. “Why’re you pushing this? What’re you after?”

“We are having a conversation, are we not?”

“I _seriously_ doubt you hold conversations like this. Actually, I doubt you hold a lot of conversations, _period_. People only push like you’re pushing when they’re working an angle. Why do want to know so badly?”

Bane is silent for a full minute. He seems to deliberate before saying, “Barsad feels you would make a suitable disciple for our temple. I wished to determine whether he was correct in his assessment.”

John holds Bane’s gaze. It looks like he’s being honest, but— John’s brow wrinkles. There were so many confusing parts to Bane’s statement. He didn’t even know where to begin. He settles on saying, “Temple?”

“The temple of the League of Shadows.”

“… Wow. That doesn’t sound foreboding _at all_. And it cleared up absolutely nothing for me.”

Bane huffs, it might possibly be a laugh. “It matters not at this point. All you need to know now is that Barsad saw potential in you and I wished to ascertain the degree of potential for myself.”

John can’t help but feel warmed by the knowledge of Barsad’s esteem for his— well, he’s not sure what, really. “So you and Barsad think I might be suitable for your… temple. That tells me you’ve had more than one motive in training me. But you need to know about my fucked up childhood why?”

“All who seek to join the League have been through the crucible of pain. And from that pain, they learn the world is unjust, and seek to correct it.”

Pretty words. But John instantly thinks of Bane’s men and his kids. “No offense,” he says, “but I don’t think anyone who values actual justice would want to join your League.”

Bane doesn’t seem offended. “You would be surprised,” he replies. He leans back, hooks his hands into the straps of his vest. He looks almost— jolly. John goggles at the sight. With the air of a man laying down a royal flush, Bane says, “Your city’s own protector is counted among us.”

For five beats, shock steals John’s breath. “You mean—” he cuts himself off before he says ‘Bruce Wayne’, “— _Batman_ is a part of your League?”

Bane is visibly amused. “He trained with the League for years. He was initiated into our inner circle.”

John stares at him. _Bullshit_ , he wants to say. No fucking way Batman would join an army with members that did the things Bane’s men did.

( _But he’s not infallible,_ the cynical part of him whispers. _He abandoned Gotham, didn’t he? Holed himself up in his mansion while injustice was still occurring? Who’s to say he didn’t make another mistake when he joined this League?_ )

Maybe Bane’s fucking around with him for his own purposes. But John has a way to check if Bane’s bluffing. “If Batman’s a part of your League, then you know who he really is, don’t you?”

More amusement. “You wish to know his true identity?”

“No,” John says bluntly, to Bane’s apparent surprise. “I know who he is.”

“ _Really._ ” Bane draws the word out like he’s savouring it. John lifts his chin; wordlessly calling Bane’s bluff. Bane holds John’s gaze – blue-grey eyes boring into John’s – and he says slowly, clearly: “Bruce Wayne.”

 

* * *

 

He has Blake’s attention now.

Naming Bruce Wayne is like throwing a stone in a pond and watching the shock ripple out, almost palpable; Blake’s eyes widen and his next breath is sharply indrawn.

Bane had made a misstep, in attempting to utilise social reciprocity on Blake. Blake wielded no shields and wore no masks; everything he thought and felt, he put out into the open, and he believed in fairness. It had been reasonable to assume that if Bane conceded a small secret to him he would feel obligated to respond in kind. Bane had thought Blake would need only a little goading to speak about his past. Once vulnerable, he would have been more receptive to being swayed toward Talia’s plan. But Blake’s childhood was clearly so wounded he’d built defences around his memories of it. It had forced Bane into abandoning that track in favour of something closer – more dangerously close – to the truth. And now Blake knew something of Bane’s mask.

Bane accepts his error philosophically. Blake knows nothing of how the mask functions or how pervasive the pain runs. And Bane can still use Blake’s childhood, his experiences, he is certain of it. They’re clearly powerful motivators, if the lengths he will go to for the children are any indicator. Bane has made an error, but all is not lost. He just needs to find the right approach.

For now, Blake’s pleasure at hearing of Barsad’s partiality and, moreover, his shock over Bruce Wayne will do.

“Why would he join you?” Blake asks. He looks betrayed, and childishly bewildered. It makes him seem almost as young as the children he guards.

“Because the League offered him a path. It offered him purpose. It took all his raw ability and honed him into a weapon by which he could fight the injustices in his city.” _And failed at,_ Bane thinks contemptuously.

“And you want to do the same with me?” Blake’s expression is astonished, but it holds the faintest shiver of hope. Then he snorts abruptly and looks down. “Right. Like I’m even in the same class as _Bruce Wayne_.” His voice is sharp with self-doubt.

 _Ah_. And there it is – Blake’s bitterness, born of experience, warring with his innate idealism. Bane smiles indulgently, safe behind the mask. He schools his voice into seriousness when he says, “We _can_ do the same with you, if you are willing, if you allow yourself to become a part of something larger, and can dedicate your life to it.” He isn’t lying to Blake, but he’s not being honest, either. He watches Blake carefully.

Blake eyes him but says nothing. His expression is thoughtful, but Bane sees the point where wariness creeps back in. There’s still hope in those dark eyes, alongside the wariness. Bane leaves it at that. He hasn’t captured Blake entirely yet, but it will suffice for now. He’s sunk a barb into Blake’s skin.

Bane knows how to play the long game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know Roy Harper in the comics doesn't have Native American blood and that he was only adopted by the Navajo. But that’s always bothered me (fetishising a minority culture due to its ‘mysticism’ – go 1940s era DC Comics… although DC comics can still be just as shockingly awful at the race thing nowadays) so here, he’s part Native American.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am a neglectful heel, I've been remiss in giving thanks to the people who've encouraged me and helped me along as I wrote this fic, so let me say thank you now to: [smugrobotics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics/pseuds/smugrobotics) for being a tireless sounding board and amazing RP partner, and [bat_hawk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bat_hawk/pseuds/bat_hawk) and [saeadame](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeadame/pseuds/Saeadame) for being utterly lovely betas.
> 
> WARNING: In-depth description and discussion on the long-term psychological effects of child prostitution. Also, discussion of an age disparate relationship.

After that training session, Bane becomes a semi-permanent fixture whenever John trains with Barsad. He comes and goes, seemingly at random. Sometimes he just watches and critiques unforgivingly from the sidelines. Other times, he swaps Barsad out, and subs himself in. Those times are torture.

This one is especially so.

John hits the ground, _hard_. The impact rattles his bones, makes his teeth clack together, drives all the air from his lungs. It’s the seventh time in as many minutes, and his frustration boils up and out.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he snarls, slapping his hand against the ground. He resists the urge to kick his feet, like a child having a tantrum, but it’s a near thing. John throws himself back harder instead, not caring how his new bruises make their agony known.

Bane makes an irritated noise from somewhere beyond him. “Concentrate.”

Answering irritation vibrating beneath John’s skin like a buzzsaw. “I _am_ concentrating.”

“Barely,” Bane scoffs.

John turns his head to glower at Bane from the floor. “You know, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s kind of hard for someone of my size to stop you from picking me up and throwing me around.”

“The aim of this exercise is _not_ to stop me from throwing you. The aim is for you to _avoid_ a grab hold entirely.”

“You’re, like, a foot taller than me.” God, he needs to stop picking up the kids’ speech patterns. “How am I supposed to get away from you when you’ve got the reach advantage?”

“By using _your_ advantages – you are smaller, and you are faster.”

“Barely,” John snaps, parroting Bane from earlier.

“Nevertheless, the fact remains that you _are_ faster,” Bane replies, just as stubborn. He makes another irritated noise under his breath and stalks off to the back of the tunnel, leaving John on the floor. John hears the thump as Bane sits down on a crate, and a rustle of paper.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he says impotently.

With no immediate target in range, John has to settle for scowling ferociously at the ceiling. He _has_ been off-balance, twisted up by anxiety as Bane’s men continue circling him like dogs without making a move. But it’s more than that; it's some overriding restlessness that John can’t pin down. _That’s_ been distracting him more, but he’s not going to tell Bane that. He might admit it to Barsad, but not to Bane. Barsad would give him shit for it, but he’d at least tell John how to solve it. Bane would probably just look down on him for not being able to ‘center himself’ or something.

He hears footsteps approaching, and John turns his head to watch Barsad’s boots as they walk towards him, stopping a foot away from his head. Barsad crouches down, his head entering John’s field of view upside down. John casts him as the immediate target of his glare. It’s not exactly fair on Barsad, but – _fuck_ – John needs to glare at _somebody_.

Barsad doesn’t give a shit, as usual. “I know what the problem is.”

“Of course you do,” John mutters, rolling his eyes. He braces himself for some scathing evaluation of his form or technique. He’s not prepared for what actually comes out of Barsad’s mouth.

“When was the last time you—” and here Barsad makes a crude gesture, flicking his wrist.

John sputters, eyes going wide. He can feel the flush that’s crawling up his face, scalding his ears. “What does that— fuck _off_ , that’s none of your business,” he manages finally, giving Barsad an incredulous stare. Barsad seriously thinks he’s doing badly at sparring because he hasn’t _jacked off_?

Barsad gives him a knowing look.

John wants to curl up on himself to protect himself from that stare, like some kind of Victorian era virgin maiden. In truth, it’s been over two months since he’d last masturbated. “It’s— the kids are always around,” he says weakly. Then, because he’s not sure he can maintain composure if Barsad keeps up that stare, he adds, “Don’t you guys practice some kind of Jedi master Zen thing in your temple? Rising above your bodily needs and all that?”

“We do. And yet I have the feeling you would find such a regime incredibly difficult to manage,” Barsad says. And that— that actually _stings_ , if John’s being completely honest; it stings quite a bit, for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. But in a voice as clinical and invasive as a hernia exam, Barsad continues, “Ignoring such needs will not damage you—”

“No shit,” John breaks in, rolling his eyes.

Barsad talks over the top of him, like a horrific _Joy of Sex_ manual given human form and armed with a rifle, “—but you would be unsuited for the practice. You are likely to become distracted. In fact, you clearly already _are_ distracted. It is only practical that you attend to those needs—”

“What, are you offering to help me out with that?” John snaps. He desperately wants this conversation to not be happening.

The look he gets from Barsad is nothing short of hilarious, even if John’s feeling a little too raw to properly appreciate it; Barsad's eyes bug out for a second and his mouth works uselessly before he wrestles his expression back into relative impassivity. It’s not as good as his usual mask, though. “You are not my type,” Barsad says finally.

Recovering a little, John gives Barsad a nasty grin before turning it into an exaggerated leer. Barsad cuffs him over the head.

Bane makes a noise and, okay, that was _definitely_ a laugh. John pushes himself into a sitting position as he turns to look—

—and freezes.

At some point during Barsad’s ghastly lecture, Bane had unstrapped and removed his vest, leaving him in only a massive back brace and cargo pants. He’s turned away from them, although he’d clearly been listening to them, bent over some documents he’d brought with him. It means John gets an eyeful of Bane’s exposed back and the line of scar tissue running down it. The scar is horrid – a thick raised line with smaller welts alongside it, like whoever had stitched Bane up had just shoved the needle and thread haphazardly through his skin.

But that’s not what holds John’s gaze.

Bane’s entire _body_ arrests his attention completely. John takes in the tanned expanse of skin – still sheened in sweat from sparring – and the way Bane’s muscles tense and flex beneath it each time he stretches to pick up another document. Bane’s torso is thick with muscle, but not the sculpted perfection of butterfly machines and free weight exercises. It’s _real_ muscle, thick and solid – built from years of raw, hard work – and John wants to get up and _touch_.

He’s never been into beefcake – too many bad memories – but this is more than just beefcake. John feels it almost like it’s a physical blow; Bane’s body is _powerful_ – there’s strength in those arms, in the muscles of his back and shoulders. John's known that since the beginning, but he hadn’t known it like _this_.

John’s tongue cleaves to the roof his mouth.

His cheeks burn and, choked by a sudden, _awful_ arousal, John turns his face away. Ends up meeting Barsad’s blue eyed stare and raised eyebrows. Even Barsad seems surprised – although the look slides into amusement the instant John makes eye contact with him.  
The amusement forms a constricting band around John’s chest, makes him feel like all the breath is being squeezed out of him slowly. What little humour he does have evaporates.

Barsad opens his mouth – clearly intending to make fun of him – and John hisses, “ _Shut up._ ” It’s delivered fierce and low, and it’s all he can manage before arousal, embarrassment, and ugly humiliation steal his voice entirely.

John’s suddenly furious – furious at Barsad, furious at _himself_. He’s not a slave to his body. He’s not some kind of fucking animal, no matter what Barsad just said about him being unsuited to restraint, he’s _not_ —

Barsad’s wry, lightly mocking expression shifts. He frowns at John for a moment, like he’s drawing conclusions about John that aren’t pleasant to consider, before standing and offering John a hand up. John stares at his hand like it’s a snake. “You need to practice disarming an armed opponent,” Barsad says, voice inflectionless. “We will start with knives.”

It’s a peace offering. John can see it as such, even if sparring – and, moreover, physical contact – is one of the last things John wants right now. At least Barsad’s eliminated the possibility of John having to spar against Bane again whilst being painfully aroused by him.

John takes the proffered hand and lets Barsad haul him up.

 

* * *

 

The discomforting realisation that Bane is attractive – even more attractive than Barsad – plays merry havoc with John’s nerves; he swings wildly between wanting to be around the kids all the time, letting their endless conversations drown out his thoughts, and wanting to be alone.

Part of him wants to talk to Barsad, or at least spend time with him in the easy silence that settles between them when they’re not giving each other shit. But Barsad had _seen_ John’s reaction to Bane – seen his reaction to Bane’s body, really, since John’s dick doesn’t even have the decency to be attracted to Bane as a _person,_ useless fucking appendage that it is – and John doesn’t want the reminder.

He thinks of Barsad’s dry, knowing tone when he’d said, ‘ _When was the last time you—?’_

And then he shuts that thought down, _fast_. It isn’t because the kids are always around, despite what he’d told Barsad (although that doesn’t help).

John just hates masturbating.

It reminds him his body isn’t entirely under his control, and he _hates_ that. In the past, given the option between fucking his own hand or going out and fucking somebody, John had chosen to go out, almost every time. Not that he’d done _that_ often, either. It felt too close to what he’d done on the street, albeit in reverse. So, most of the time, he’d simply avoided thinking about it – distracted himself when he got hard, occupied his brain with something mind numbing and menial, until the urge passed.

And, up until now, that strategy had _worked_. But John can’t avoid thinking about jerking off now, because he can’t avoid _Bane_. Not without calling Bane’s attention to him even more. Not without making Bane ask questions about why he’s avoiding training or – worse yet – noticing things John doesn’t want him to notice.

It makes him jumpy when he passes Bane in the tunnels, or when Bane calls him over because there’s been an argument between Bane’s men and one of John’s kids. He thinks he sees confusion, possibly suspicion, in Bane’s eyes, in response to his erratic behaviour. But he can’t be sure. He’d have to be looking at Bane for more than a few seconds to be able to do that.

 

* * *

 

Bane helms another one of John's training sessions, three days after.

It’s just as disastrous as the previous one and, at its conclusion, John’s feeling fucking resentful and Bane is just disbelieving.

“Somehow, you have become worse than you were a week ago,” Bane says. His voice isn’t even _scathing_ , which is arguably the worst part of it. It’s just absolute, like he’s delivering a final verdict. Bane gets up and walks a short way off, shaking his head as he goes. John levels a vicious glare at his back.

Barsad, who’d been sitting and watching from the crates, rises and joins Bane; starts speaking to him in a low tone. Bane replies in an equally quiet voice. They’re not speaking in English, which clues John into the fact they’re talking about _him_.

Nursing several new bruises, sick and resentful of his own body, and looking for someone to strike out at, John raises his voice: “I’m still _here_ , you know.” Both Bane and Barsad turn to look at him. John scowls. “If you’ve got something to say about me, say it to _me_. Don’t act like I’m not fucking here.” He’s well aware of how petulant his voice sounds, but he doesn’t care.

Bane’s eyes are as flat as his voice. “Your sense of self-importance is greatly over-inflated.”

“Jesus, don’t even try that. What else would you be talking about? And if we’re on the subject of personal flaws, I’m just gonna say _your_ ability as a teacher is—”

Barsad crosses back to John; he cuffs John lightly around the head before John can finish, just like he had the other day. It’s nowhere near his full strength, but it pisses John off royally anyway. He slaps Barsad’s hand away, but Barsad just comes back with another swipe that John also has to swat away.

The blows keep coming then, faster each time. John blocks or smacks each one away, growing increasingly furious. He kicks out at Barsad eventually – Barsad avoids the snap kick easily – and snarls, “What the _fuck_?”

Rather than replying, Barsad turns and looks at Bane, gesturing at John with a _‘you see?’_ gesture. For a moment, Bane just looks back and forth between them impassively. Then he nods and leaves the tunnel without a word.

John stares. _What?_ He turns to stare to Barsad.

Barsad raises one eyebrow slightly. “You are uncomfortable with him,” he says. “It is affecting your performance against him unduly. I suggested he let you be while you resolve it.”

John’s immediately aghast. “You actually _told_ him that?”

“I did not tell him _why_ you were uncomfortable.”

John cringes; he can’t help it. He takes a deep, settling breath and forces himself to look Barsad in the face. “I— look. Thanks. I wish you hadn’t said anything, but… thanks. And I will. Work on it, I mean. I just need a couple of days to get over it.” _Hopefully only a couple of days,_ he thinks.

“Do not ignore it. Take care of it,” Barsad says bluntly.

“That’s what I _said_ I was going to—”

“No. I said _take care_ of it.”

John stutters to a stop. _No_ , he thinks immediately. He can’t— he doesn’t _want_ to— he looks away from Barsad, because he won’t be able to keep talking otherwise. Humiliation strangles his voice: “How?”

“Surely you don’t need me to instruct you on how to see to your own body’s needs.”

“You’re _seriously_ making fun of me about this?”

After a pause, Barsad says, “No. I am not. And I will not speculate on why it makes you uncomfortable.” And his voice is matter-of-fact as he continues, “But be practical, Blake. Is it worth risking your life? Take care of it. Then you may continue your training.” He turns and makes to leave. _That_ startles John into talking.

“What, you mean I should do it _here? Now?_ ” he demands incredulously.

Barsad barely looks back as he says, “You said the children are constantly in the way. No one will come down here.” He vanishes around the corner like gun smoke.

Left alone, John glares at the ground. He can’t believe this. How the fuck did his life end up like this? Spending his days corralling a group of aged out kids and runaways; associating with murderers and worse; receiving training in unarmed combat because he might be _attacked_?

He lets out a hard breath, scrubbing at his face. But Barsad’s right. John’s on edge because he can’t concentrate, and he can’t concentrate because— because—

The situation suddenly feels so _ridiculous_ that John almost bursts out laughing. He doesn’t, if only out of fear he might descend into hysteria. Any other man, any _normal_ man, would welcome being told to jack off, he tells himself, although, no matter what he’d just said, John doubts Barsad _actually_ means for John to just whip his dick out and work one off at the wrist right now.

But how long does he have?

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t afford to suspend training on account of his sexual hang ups. And isn’t being afraid of touching himself just another way he isn’t in control of his body?

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks. _Let’s just get it over with._

Even though Barsad had said about no one would approach the tunnel, John’s acutely paranoid that someone will anyway. He moves all the way to the back, sits down on the ground behind some crates; positions himself so that he can see anyone coming from a gap between two stacks.

And for a while, he simply sits, trying to breathe evenly and not throw up. Eventually, he works up the nerve to put a hand on his crotch – starts rubbing through two layers of cloth. He keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling. He’s not going to be able to do this if he looks down.

But slowly – very slowly – a low, tightly coiled sensation starts developing between his legs and, eventually, rubbing through his pants isn’t enough. John steels himself then unzips his jeans and slides them down; pushes his hand past the waistband of his underwear to grip his dick, skin on skin, and move his hand.

God. _Fuck_. John’s breaths hiss out from between clenched teeth. He’d forgotten – or, at least, avoided thinking about so much that it was close to forgetting – what this felt like. There’s a tingle in his spine, and a hot, heavy feeling low in his belly and in his balls. John swallows and moves his hand faster.

It’s— it feels good. _God_ , does it feel good. John tries to keep his mind blank, focus exclusively on sensation. But slick, warm arousal makes him relax, however unwillingly. He gets brief flashes, at first. He remembers the last time he’d had sex - relatively anonymous; she’d had shallow breasts and dark blonde hair; a way of twisting her hips that had made him buck, made him fuck into her harder. He starts recalling others. The images and impressions string together, become more coherent—

And then he’s remembering tanned skin and the flex of powerful muscle beneath; the long line of torso and spine; distantly recalls the smell of warm leather, salt skin and—

His orgasm takes him by surprise, sharp like lightning and just as blinding. John curls in around himself, even as he rides out the last thrusts into his fist. He sits hunched over, panting, shivering slightly.

 _Bane_. Fucking hell, he’d come all over his hand whilst thinking about _Bane_. He can barely stop himself from hyperventilating.

What he’d just done— that was normal, he tells himself, trying to stop the shivering. In his head, he repeats all the shit his therapists had told him, in the sessions he’d been made to have once he’d been picked up off the street and put back into the system. It was just a normal, regular fantasy, and just because he’d happened to fantasise about a violent man, it didn’t mean he’d asked for anything that had happened to him on the street. John repeats that to himself, over and over.

He still feels slightly sick.

 

* * *

 

Four days later, John is no longer thinking of tearing off his own skin, or picking a fight with the most immediate target anymore. He still feels faintly queasy when he thinks about masturbating again, but he’s no longer running the risk of freaking out. Just barely, though.

The training session today with Bane had gone better. Left him exhausted, actually, so he’s sitting on his cot, close to dozing - considering slithering down into a sleeping position - when Daniel approaches him, carrying Hannah on his hip. “John?”

John blinks his eyes open. “Mmm. Yeah?”

Daniel gives him a slightly anxious look but says, “Could you, um, mind Hannah for an hour or two? I need to get some stuff done and Hannah— well, normally I’d ask Jade or Roy, but they’re, uh...”

They’re off fucking, is what Daniel doesn’t want to say. John waves a hand at him, indicating he doesn’t care. He’d laid down the rule, when the kids had finally warmed to him entirely: he wasn’t going to stop them from having sex (because, God, they’re teenagers - it’d be like trying to stop a storm with a bucket), but if anyone received any unwelcome advances, they were to come to him immediately and he’d deal with it. And then he’d added, as no nonsense as he could, that he had condoms if they needed it. They were a regular request on supply runs, but, well, people ran out. He’d rather experience the awkwardness of mutual embarrassment and know they were being safe, than have them trying to sneak around.

And at that thought – sneaking around – John blinks. He’s suddenly much more alert. It’s after work hours and meal time’s long passed. What could Daniel need to do? An old suspicion rises up. “… Sure,” he says slowly, “Where’re you going?”

“Just— just clearing up some, um, debris. I left my part of the work site kind of a mess, I don’t want to piss off Bane’s guys.”

“... If they’re giving you a hard time—”

“No, no,” Daniel hurries to reassure him. “No one’s giving me a hard time. I just. I thought maybe I should keep the peace going, yeah? Not give anyone a reason to, um, get angry.”

 _Uh-huh._ “Daniel.”

“... Yeah?”

John fixes him with his firmest stare. “Is there anything going on that I need to know about?”

“Wh— no. There’s nothing, I just— I should go do it, in case someone trips or something, up there,” Daniel says, holding Hannah out to John. Hannah reaches out for John immediately.

 _Oh, dirty move, kid,_ John thinks. But he takes Hannah without another word and watches Daniel go. Hannah’s already sleepy, although she tries to stay awake to play with him longer, so he has to devote all his attention for fifteen minutes or so to get her to sleep. But once she’s out, he starts brooding almost immediately.

Daniel had been cleaner than the rest of the kids, when John had first come down - even more so than Jade. And even now, Daniel has things the other kids don’t. Small things. Better toiletries. Sometimes he seems to have new clothes, although he could have been going out himself and getting them. And he’s always had that real ground coffee. He’s still getting it, even though the kids are included in the supply runs now, and John’s never seen coffee on the lists.

Cold certainty settles over John.

By the time Daniel returns, John’s brooding has turned into quiet seething. He stares unwaveringly at Daniel as he waves a thank you at John, then walks to his cot, beside Hannah’s. As John watches, he sees Daniel scratch at his arm. And as he scratches, his sleeve lifts— and John sees the _bruises_ on his wrists.

John’s on his feet and right beside Daniel so fast it feels like he’s been teleported. He snags Daniel by the arm as soon as he’s in range; drags him to a quiet part of the tunnel and turns so that none of the other kids can see Daniel’s face. “What’s going on?” he demands without preamble.

He should be savvier about this, part of him thinks. But he’s had two hours to dwell on the fact that someone’s been fucking with one of his kids and, _goddamn it_ , didn’t Daniel trust him to take care of it? He’d been one of the first kids to start talking to John, hadn’t he?

Daniel looks trapped. “What— what do you mean?”

John’s mouth thins. “I let it slide, Daniel— I gave you the benefit of the doubt and I let you go. But this—” he grabs Daniel’s arm and rolls the sleeve up, exposing the blue purple bands on his wrists, “—I’m not letting _this_ slide. What the _hell_ is going on? Why didn’t you come to me?”

Daniel’s pulled his chin in and is staring at him from beneath lowered brows. “It’s... not what you think,” he says slowly.

“What is it, then?” John snaps. It’s entirely the wrong tone to take, and it puts Daniel on the defensive immediately.

“Look, John. I— I get what you’re trying to do here. I really do. But I don’t need you to do for me what you did for Hannah, okay?”

John’s aghast. “You... Daniel, for God’s sake, you’re getting _hurt_.” He’s still got a grip on Daniel’s arm and he holds it up again.

Daniel’s mouth thins and his dark eyes flash. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? Well, you’re wrong. Dead wrong,” No trace of a stammer now, now that he’s indignant. He yanks his arm away.

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s entirely too-awake and not awake enough for this. He tries to tread carefully. “I’m not... saying you don’t know what you’re doing. But things are— things can get confused. The men down here aren’t—”

Daniel gets up into his personal space. “This?” he says, holding up his arm, pointing at the bruise on his wrist. It goes all the way around. It looks like the bruise from a manacle, or a restraint. John tries not flinch. “It was my idea,” Daniel says firmly.

John recoils like Daniel’s holding out a live scorpion. But Daniel’s determined, and he pulls the collar of his shirt down to expose purple-red bruises along his collarbone. “These— all my idea too. He did it because I wanted him to. He _doesn’t hurt me_ , John. Not like you mean. He lets me choose. It’s always my idea. Where’d you get the idea that I didn’t know the difference between healthy and unhealthy sex from?”

John starts to feel that sick nausea rising up. Daniel’s leaning in close, and something must show on John’s face, because Daniel’s suddenly leaning back fast, eyes going wide. “Oh shit,” Daniel breathes. “Oh _shit_ , John—”

John turns on his heel and walks out of the tunnel.

 

* * *

 

He walks mindlessly for a while, until he realises he’s heading toward unknown territory. _Go the fuck back,_ his brain whispers. _What if you get jumped out here?_

And John goes back, keeping up a fast pace until he’s back in the central chamber. The place is deserted and he can’t hear any footsteps other than his own. Then he just paces back and forth, his thoughts chasing themselves around in his head. No one comes out of the eastern tunnel to confront him or talk to him, thank God.

It takes a few minutes, but he slowly begins to realise he’s been pacing in front of the stairs to Bane’s quarters. John slows to a stop. He knows why his feet have brought him here, even if it took a while for the rest of him to catch up.

 _Fuck fuck fuck._ He doesn’t want to do this. For— a number of reasons. But they had a deal. And this is a problem, involving one of John’s kids and one of Bane’s men.

John climbs the steps deliberately, one at a time.

There’s a guard standing at the threshold, tall, swarthy and muscular. He looks at John impassively when John comes to a halt in front of him.

“I need to speak to Bane.”

The guard stares blankly at John – long enough that John’s starting to wonder if he speaks English, when he hears Bane say something in another language. The commanding tone is evident, and the guard steps aside immediately. John edges past, eyeing the guard warily, but the man apparently no longer deems John worthy of notice.

John steps into Bane’s quarters proper and steels himself before he looks at Bane.

Only one work lamp is on, but Bane has a flame going in a little brazier on the floor, and the man himself is sitting at his makeshift desk, maps laid out in front of him again. And, for fuck’s sake, he’s shirtless again. John looks away immediately. Glares out over the balcony as he says: “One of your men is fucking one of my kids. We had a deal.”

Bane’s voice is expressionless when he asks, “Do you know which man?”

“No,” John scowls. “Daniel won’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

John makes a furious noise, keeps glaring out over the balcony. “Because he thinks it’s consensual.”

There’s a creak of the chair as Bane shifts. “But you have reason to believe otherwise?”

“He’s receiving... gifts. And he has these— these bruises. That’s not consensual, even if the guy’s nice to him. That’s _favour fucking_.”

Bane’s silent for a while. Then he says, “How old is this child?”

“You seriously think that matters?” John demands. Outrage makes him spin around, enables him to look at Bane directly. He feels slightly ill. Whatever other fucked up things Bane did – torture, murder – John had thought he’d understand when it came to something like _this_.

“I believe I know which man you are talking about,” Bane replies. His tone is firmer when he repeats: “How old is the child?”

John’s mouth thins. “Seventeen.”

Bane’s eyebrows go up slightly. “Not a child then,” he declares, “Not in the eyes of the League. And not a child by your nation’s laws, either.”

Disgusted, John snaps, “I’m not getting into age of consent and statutory rape laws with you.”

“Is that not the issue?”

 _How can Bane honestly not get this?_ “It’s not just _age_ , it’s— it’s the fact that your guy, whoever the fuck he is, is in a position of power over Daniel, and whatever the fuck else they may have in their relationship, that’s _always going to be there._ ”

Bane’s eyes flash. “Do not confuse my men with the jackals that preyed on the children.”

Don’t confuse his... wait, _what—?_ Weren’t they all Bane’s men? Derailed, John says, “What?”

Bane’s voice is brusque – deeply irritated – when he says, “I have my men, the League of Shadows, and then there are hired men – outsiders. I did not wish to take them on.” His eyes are cold when he looks at John. “As I said, I believe I know which man you are referring to. Do not assume he is the same as the men who solicited the children for sex. He is a dedicated member of the League, an honourable man, and we _do_ have a code.”

John almost chokes on his tongue. “Code or no code, how is your man any different?”

“Because the boy - the _young man_ , rather - is of age? Because he has consented?” Mocking edge to Bane’s voice.

“I just _told_ you. Daniel _doesn’t know_ what he’s consenting to!” John wants to scream; he wants to throw a punch at Bane, but he can’t do either. Afterwards, he sincerely wishes he _had_ done one or the other, because the next thing Bane says is:

“How much of this is about him, and how much of this is about you?”

John rocks back like Bane has slapped him. Shock robs him of speech entirely. After what feels like an eternity, he manages to say, “What?” His voice sounds feeble, pathetic.

Bane says nothing, just watches him, the look in his eyes inflexible. He’s never seemed more inhuman to John than in this very moment.

John takes a shaky breath, tries to laugh it off. It comes out slightly hysterical. Tries to inject as much scorn as possible into his voice when he says, “You— you think I’m, what, _projecting_ onto Daniel or—”

Bane overrides him. “Someone hurt you. Took advantage of you when you were young. Younger than Daniel, most likely.”

John’s gut starts churning from an anxiety he doesn’t want to think about, _can’t_ bring himself to think about— “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he breathes. His chest feels tight. He can’t control how quickly his breaths are coming.

“Perhaps,” Bane says mildly. And then his voice turns relentless when he says, “But shall I tell you what I do know? At twelve years of age, you were hospitalised for an injury that required morphine to counteract the pain. You were homeless for months when you were young. And what recourse is there for a child on the street who is not old enough to work? Theft. Drug trafficking. Prostitution—” John flinches. He can’t help it, and he _knows_ Bane sees him do it, but Bane just keeps talking, “—and now, as a grown man, you are alert for signs of sexual abuse in children. Alert to the point of over-vigilance.”

John stares at Bane without really seeing him. _You don’t know shit_ , he wants to say. But the words end up trapped in his throat, choking him. Bane doesn’t know shit about what John’s been through, but he knows _enough_ —

The sick feeling in John’s gut grows. His heart hammers, hard enough he can feel his pulse jumping in his neck, and the feel of it just makes him even more nauseous. He thinks Bane might still be talking, but he can’t hear him properly. There’s an odd, ringing tone growing louder in his ears, even though it sounds like he’s listening to Bane from underwater. John tries to suck in a breath, and finds that he can’t. His head is getting light, and he _can’t get enough air_ —

“— Blake. Blake _._ _John,_ ” he hears Bane say, and he sees a wavering impression of Bane make its way over to him. Feels one of Bane’s big hands settle on his arm, but the sensation is deadened, like he’s feeling it through cotton wool.

“John,” he hears again. “Can you hear my voice?”

Unseeing, John nods.

“Good. Listen to me. You need to breathe regularly—”

John shakes his head – _he can’t_ —

“You can,” Bane says immediately, without sympathy. “Breathe in from your stomach. Just once.” John takes a hitching breath, then a deeper one. The wavering shape that could be Bane nods. “Keep going. Breathe out. Slowly.”

John lets the breath out in a shudder.

Bane repeats the same two commands, over and over, and John follows along, unthinking. He can’t— he can’t do anything else. His entire body feels numb.

Eventually – John doesn’t know how long they stay like that – the blackness recedes from the edges of his vision and his hearing returns, although there’s still a faint ringing. Tinnitus. He also still feels light headed, and nauseous, but for wholly different reasons now. As he comes back to himself, he realises Bane’s made him sit down on the pile of cargo containers, even though the much more logical choice - the bed - is right beside it. John’s sure Bane’s choice is deliberate; Bane _definitely_ knows what John had done on the street, and he's trying to avoid triggering him further.

The humiliation threatens to overwhelm him.

Bane moves away to his chair; turns that chair around to face John, then sits back down in it. “Are you feeling better now?”

God, it feels like Bane says that to him a lot, although John knows it’s only been twice.

John doesn’t look at him. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah. I—” his voice falters, and he clears his throat before trying again. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened there.”

Bane’s voice is clinical. “Presyncope. It is a physical reaction to stress. It is common in those who have experienced—” and here he says a jumble of syllables that John doesn’t understand, before following it up with, “—although you would refer to it as post-traumatic stress disorder, here in the West.”

John’s head goes up at that, incredulous. “ _What?_ ” he says, before shaking his head. “No, I think something got lost in translation there.”

Bane shrugs. “The translation is correct.”

“Yeah, well, you might want to rethink it. PTSD is what war vets get. Combat trauma. I doubt the guys who served in Afghanistan really want to be associated with street trash hustlers,” John says bluntly, with a bitter laugh. Bane just watched him have a nervous breakdown at the word _‘prostitution’_. John sees absolutely no point in hedging around what he’d done anymore.

“That they would not appreciate it does not make it less true,” Calm, calm voice.

“You _seriously_ think I have PTSD,” John says disbelievingly.

“I know you do.”

Both willing and unwilling to believe him - PTSD, seriously? It sounds a lot better than ‘fucked in the head’, but - John says, “So you’re a shrink now, too? Alongside being a—” he stops abruptly.

The look in Bane’s eyes is amused. “Alongside being a _what_ , Blake?”

John purses his lips. Shakes his head. “I’m not-- I’m not going to say.” And he won’t. He’d made the unconscious - and now conscious - decision not to put a label on what he thought Bane and his men were doing, weeks ago.

“Oh? And why is that?”

John crosses his arms. “Why do you _think_?” he asks, rather than answer.

“Plausible deniability,” Bane says, and the sly smile is evident in his voice. “You think this would be a matter for your police force, if we were discovered?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t _want_ to know,” John repeats slowly, emphatically. He’s starting to feel shivery again. Stress makes his muscles twitch reflexively.

Bane takes in his reaction impassively. “You should try speaking of something else,” he says finally. “Something less likely to cause anxiety.”

“Yeah? Like what? Religion? Politics? Family?”

Bane quirks an eyebrow. “You have heard me declare that I do not believe in God—” John had? Oh, he remembers. Bane had said _‘I feel no need to be closer to God’_ , right before he’d spared John’s life, that first time. Jesus, long-term recall much? “—and we do not have enough time to discuss political ideology. So— that leaves only family, Blake.”

“I’m an only child and my parents are dead,” John offers flatly.

Bane makes an expansive gesture. “There. You see? Already, you have moved onto subjects that are less painful,” he says.

John’s mouth drops open, even as he snorts out a shocked laugh. It’s sick, _black_ humour, but still— it startles a laugh out of him. He eyes Bane is amazement. “You and Barsad," he says in disbelief. "Your senses of humour are completely fucked up, you know that? I think you just won, though, with that comment.”

Bane inclines his head in acknowledgement, or possibly thanks.

Still weak, still slightly shivery from anxiety, John nevertheless laughs again, and smiles at Bane. He thinks Bane smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this chapter - it's the hardest chapter I've had to write, and I wanted to make sure I got the seriousness of John's psychological state across clearly without being overly dramatic. However, chapter 15 will come out faster because it's so closely linked with this one; we've hit a turning point.
> 
> In other notes: PTSD in child prostitutes _is_ common, although the research is still contentious when it comes to adult prostitutes. The situation between John and Daniel is shamelessly and lovingly yoinked from Te, one of the very first fanfic authors I ever read (when I was wee a 'un at the age of thirteen, lol). Te, if you're reading this (oh God) it was intended as a fangirl-ish homage!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: References to child sexual abuse

Bane and Barsad give him a grace period of one day, but that is as much as they can spare, Barsad says. Then they resume his training. And, despite the fact that it’s now out in the open that Bane freaks John out (full reasons still mercifully unknown to Bane, at least), they step up the number of times John has to go up against Bane. Sometimes, John spends barely a quarter of a session running through katas with Barsad before the man starts pulling away, glancing at Bane like he’s hearing some signal that’s inaudible to John.  
  
And, each time, John barely has enough time to gather himself up into some semblance of composure before Bane takes a swing at him.  
  
It doesn’t always go well.  
  
The first session following his panic attack, John is thrown and lands on the floor face down. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but this time John’s got a very different set of memories lurking at the forefront of his brain. There’s the overwhelming sense memory of being thrown down for a wholly different purpose, and John reacts mindlessly – flips back over and scrabbles away on hands and feet until his back hits the wall, ten feet away.  
  
Bane stops immediately, calls Barsad back in, and retreats to the back of the tunnel for the rest of the session.  
  
The second, third and fourth go better, but on the fifth one, John mis-times a dodge and Bane succeeds in getting one massive arm around his waist, the other hand coming up to get John into a joint lock as he hauls John backward. Bane’s body presses up along John’s side, against half of John’s back, and John–  
  
–checks out of his head.  
  
(All he remembers later is the pain in his shoulder – he’d nearly dislocated his arm, Barsad tells him, thrashing to get out of Bane’s grip – and the murmur of Bane’s voice, as Bane had brought him back around.  
  
It had seemed to take less time than the first, but the fact that it happened a second time is almost more than John can bear.)  
  
It’s fucking awful, mortifying; nothing short of shameful for him, how he can’t control his reactions now. He’s furious at himself, and the fury is big enough to spill out into everything, if he lets it.  
  
He doesn’t.  
  
He avoids the kids whenever they start getting too loud, or too close, or just too much. The first time he’d had to do it was when Jalil had gotten it into his head to teach Roy popping, and then Emilio and Mark had decided to join in. Their hollering and laughter had bored like a drill straight through John’s skull, and he’d been swamped by the overwhelming urge to snarl at them to _just shut the fuck up_. He’d stopped at the last second, appalled at himself for how close he’d come. But Daniel, who’d taken to watching John with mingled concern and pity, had noticed and said, “John?” uncertainly–  
  
–and John had had to shove himself to his feet and walk out before more of the kids started noticing. From behind him, he’d heard Tim say to Daniel, “ _God,_ just leave him alone, would you?”  
  
So that’s the pattern now. Whenever the kids start grating on him, John gets up from whatever he’s doing and immediately walks away because he’s not going to take it out on them. He’s not going to be another one of those adults in their lives. And every time he makes to leave, the kids don’t follow because Daniel or, even more often, _Tim_ is blocking their way.  
  
John doesn’t know if Tim’s figured it out or if he’s just reacting to the depth of John’s distress – because God knows John isn’t doing a great job at concealing it. John doesn’t know what Tim knows and he doesn’t want to ask because he fears what Tim knows most of all. Just the thought that Tim – clever, bright, cheeky Tim, who looks up to John like a _brother_ – may know what he’d done on the street is enough to make John go weak from shame.  
  
He wants to hate Barsad for bringing this out into the open. He wants to hate Bane for not leaving him _alone_. Bane had understood, hadn’t he? He was the one who’d avoided putting John on the bed, surely he knew John wouldn’t want to be touched. So why the fuck did he have to step up the number of times John trains with him now?  
  
But Bane and Barsad are endlessly pragmatic about it. John needs practice against someone who isn’t Barsad, needs to practice reacting, not freezing up, in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds. There’s no scorn and, even more, there’s no _pity_ from them. Not like society had taught John there would be. Because, after all, real men don’t show weakness, do they? Real men don’t break down. Instead–  
  
“It happens,” is what Barsad says, when John asks him about it. “There is no shame. It merely is.”  
  
“Although there would be shame if you showed no desire to heal,” Bane adds. “If you dwelt endlessly on your pain without wishing to move beyond it. But you do, and so you shall.”  
  
And so it goes.  
  
After the second time John almost blacks out, Bane ensures he doesn’t push beyond what John can bear. But he doesn’t stay within John’s comfort zone either. He invades the edges of John’s personal space, shows up suddenly in the periphery of John’s vision. He starts touching John more outside of sparring – physically moving him around during katas like Barsad does, rather than just instructing him, or clapping John on the shoulder when he gets something right.  
  
The touches are brief, yet they’re still very... _there_. John can’t ignore them. Bane moves away the instant John looks like he’s going to start locking up, but, inevitably, he returns. And gradually, like a skittish horse becoming shock-proofed, John finds himself becoming accustomed to Bane’s touch.  
  
He wonders where Bane had learned to do that.  
  
And then he wonders _why_ Bane’s putting so much effort into doing it. Every time he looks at Bane, however, the question dies in his throat.  
  
By the mid-point of the following week, John thinks he’s starting to see two Banes in his head. One is the Bane that his body reacts to – with prickling, hypersensitive skin and faster breaths. John can’t look that Bane in the eye. But the other Bane John _can_ look in the eye, sitting across from after training, and even talking to, sometimes.  
  
And when it comes to the latter Bane, because John is actually capable of talking to him, John comes to realise that Bane is a _talker_. John had made the mistake in thinking Bane’s direct, to-the-point speech meant he didn’t talk much. In fact, all Bane’s direct speech meant was that he didn’t have to talk for _as long_ to get his point across. That’s helpful, since the shit Bane seems to enjoy talking about is heavy – politics, military history, freaking _philosophy_ – and, while John isn’t stupid, John doesn’t need the added complication of trying to figure out flowery speech along with puzzling out and defending his arguments.  
  
He doesn’t fail to notice that every topic Bane picks is as far from personal as you can get, though. He’s not sure if that’s because Bane is being sensitive to him, or Bane wants to avoid talking about himself. Both, most likely.  
  
Today is different, however. John and Bane are alone, for one thing, Barsad having vanished on another one of his mysterious late night errands. And, as John sprawls flat out against the ground, trying his damndest to leech the cold of the concrete floor through his skin, Bane says, from somewhere just outside John’s field of view:  
  
“What will you do, when the work in the tunnels is concluded?”  
  
John blinks, although he doesn’t raise his head or turn it to look at Bane. It’s the first time he’s heard Bane refer to the tunnel work being over, although, of course it has to end at some point – the men are well past the halfway point of drilling up the central chamber, and John’s watched them start inserting– things (his brain shies away from what those ‘things’ are) connected by wires into the holes before sealing them back up.  
  
“I don’t know?” John says finally, looking at the ceiling. “Find work somewhere else? It’s what I’ve done since I was seventeen.” He shrugs and adds, “I guess– I’d like to keep in touch with all the kids, but... Jesus, that’s going to be hard, once they all leave here. They’re going to be all over the city.” The thought of all his kids scattering throughout Gotham, borne away from where he can protect them, sends a water-weak flash of anxiety through John.  
  
Bane is silent for a while before he says, sounding almost puzzled, “You have no plans beyond that? No long term goals?”  
  
“You sound like a guidance counsellor,” John says, grinning, and then he does turn his head to look at Bane. Bane’s blank look tells him that Bane doesn’t know what that is.  
  
John finds it strange, the gaps in Bane’s knowledge. He’s fluent in at least five languages (John’s counted), but he finds the kids’ slang confusing. He knows how to splint an arm and stitch a wound, but he’s never even heard of the TV show _House_. He’s been all over the world, but he’s never been inside a Wal-Mart (not that John thinks he’s missing out there).  
  
Bane seems to be waiting for a serious answer, though, and the steady look in his eyes makes it feel like it might be– okay for John to answer. _Screw it,_ John thinks. Bane already knows the worst about him, right?  
  
John sits up from the floor, leans his back against the crate while he looks at his hands. “Not really? I never had much time to think about it. When I– I lived on the street, I kind of just focused on getting through each day.” Neither of them comments on what John means by that. Still, John hurries on, saying:  
  
“After that, I got put in St. Swithin’s, and I had to knuckle down to get my GED because I’d missed so much school. And then I aged out. I needed to get a job to live, so I started working a bunch of temp jobs. And that’s how I’ve lived since.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It hasn’t exactly been ideal for long-term planning.” He says it plainly, but, all the same, he feels weirdly vulnerable. Like he’s just peeled back the dressing on a raw, still-bleeding wound for Bane’s inspection.  
  
He can feel Bane’s stare. It lasts for a long while. Then Bane lets out a hiss of breath, saying, “That is hardly living, Blake. That is basic survival.”  
  
John flushes, instantly angry, though he’s hard pressed to say why. What the hell did Bane mean by that? Did he mean John should’ve done something else, something _more_ with his life? Or that John was wasting his life? “Who’re you to judge?” he asks sharply, looking straight at Bane. He can feel his defenses slamming back up. _Stupid, stupid,_ he thinks. Stupid to give in to that moment of weakness and think he could tell Bane shit without being judged–  
  
“I am not judging you.”  
  
“It sure sounded like you were,” John snaps. “Where do you even– you don’t know what life is like in this city, you’ve spent all your time here in the _sewers_. What do you know about Gotham?”  
  
Bane says nothing back, and John feels compelled to fill the silence, lit up with a sudden, white-hot anger he can’t express properly – fuelled by all the irritation he can’t ( _won’t_ ) take out on the kids, all his lingering frustrations about his body; about _Bane_. “You don’t know what it’s like. I mean, hey, maybe you’ve gone through some fucked up shit too – I don’t know, you haven’t said shit about your life. But going through shit doesn’t mean you get to pass judgement on my life, just like I wouldn’t get to judge yours.” He’s breathing hard by the end of it. Glaring at Bane, daring him to try punching him, or throttling him.  
  
Bane gets up with a creak of leather. But his movements are slow and there’s no threat in his stance when he walks over. Instead, he squats down in front of John, balancing easily on the balls of his feet – surprising, for a man of his breadth and height. He looks at John with his head tilted slightly. “I know more of Gotham than you think. And I was not judging you.”  
  
John doesn’t quite sneer. “Then what did you mean by it?”  
  
“I meant precisely what I said. Your life, up to and including this point, has been focused on survival. It was an _observation_ , Blake, not a judgement.”  
  
John slumps back. The lack of challenge in Bane’s tone leaves him feeling uncertain, his residual anger having nowhere to go now. “What’re _you_ living for then?” he ends up saying, voice mulish. Tit-for-tat. Bane knows the short, nasty version of John’s life story. John wants to hear something from Bane, something more than just distant debate, or commentary on John’s progress in sparring or John’s apparent lack of planning skills.  
  
The corners of Bane’s eyes crinkle, as if he’s pleased that John has asked. He leans back – making John realise how close their faces had been – and stands up. “I live to bring about revolution,” he says.  
  
It sounds absurd on the surface. But there’s a strange, compelling ring to Bane’s voice, and John’s curious despite himself. “Yeah?” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Like Che Guevara?” He pushes himself to his feet and puts his hands on his hips, not liking being towered over by Bane.  
  
Bane lifts his eyebrows in acknowledgement. “Perhaps. But unlike that great leader, I do not live to bring about any particular ideological reform. I live for revolution in that it is a means to restore balance to an imperfect world. I have done so before, and I will do so again here, in Gotham.” John frowns, confused, and Bane’s eyes smile as he notices. He motions for John to sit on a crate, then follows suit. He continues, sounding low, confidential, _persuading_ :  
  
“Surely you see the need for a revolution here, Blake. You know this city. You have felt its evils – suffered under them. You know that the wealth and privilege have been spread so unequally that children are compelled to sell their bodies to survive, whilst the supposed elite squander their lives and deplete their coffers.  
  
“And you know it is those very elite – those who shirk their social obligations and declare it their right to do so – that have brought about Gotham’s decay. This city holds itself up as a paragon of civilisation but its foundations are nothing but injustice and suffering. It cannot be permitted to endure. A change _will_ come to Gotham, and I shall usher it in. And when that happens, Blake, I suspect you will be well-pleased to witness it.”  
  
It’s the conviction in Bane’s voice and the light in his eyes. But even more than that, it’s the meaning and the content of his words. They’re everything John’s ever thought about Gotham and more, in his darkest waking hours. Everything he’s ever felt about this city. Bane sees what John sees just as keenly. Bane may even feel what John feels about Gotham, judging by the strength of feeling in what he’d just said.  
  
For the first time, John thinks he has an inkling of why Bane’s men are so devoted to him.  
  
Bane is watching him again, he realises. John stares back, feeling slightly hypnotised.  
  
“That–” _That’s exactly it,_ John starts to say, before his voice falters. His brain seems to shake itself a little then, and it goes down a different route. He ends up saying, “You’re... going to start a revolution?” He phrases it as a question, but it really isn’t.  
  
Cold, cold dread starts creeping up his limbs. _You knew,_ part of him whispers, _you knew. You just didn’t want to think about it._  
  
And it’s true. He didn’t. Because as long as he didn’t think about it, he could entertain the notion of getting himself and the kids out if things went to shit. But he can’t avoid looking the situation full in the face now because, if it’s a real revolution that Bane’s planning, there’s not going to be any escape. Not if Bane succeeds, and _fuck_ , despite his dread, it’s just like Bane had said – John probably _would_ be pleased to see Bane succeed, because why shouldn’t they have a do-over?  
  
The Waynes had failed to fix Gotham completely. Batman – Bruce Wayne – had failed. The GPD as it is now is just a band-aid, and everything that’s dirty and wrong about Gotham still exists, even if the people who made it worse are behind bars. But–  
  
“How– how are you going to do that? How’re you going to start a revolution?” John asks, and it feels like he’s willingly walking the gangplank, about to voluntarily plunge into the depths of what Bane’s planning.  
  
Bane still doesn’t say anything. There will be no turning back, his eyes seem to say. John can kiss plausible deniability goodbye once Bane starts talking. Then again, plausible deniability seems like a laughable concept now. Whatever happens next, John needs to know the details. He’s not going to be able to protect the kids – or himself – otherwise.  
  
“How’re you going to do that?” John repeats firmly.  
  
Bane takes a few hissing breaths before replying. “We have plans in place to disrupt the established order of things.”  
  
“Yeah, no– vague isn’t going to cut it anymore,” John says, like he hasn’t been the one desperately trying to bury his head in the sand. “What _exactly_ are you planning?” He snorts a little. “Because I seriously doubt you’re going to join forces with the Occupy movement and sit down in front of Wall Street.” Not with the men Bane has in his army – and they are an army. Not those men with their flat, cold stares and battle hardened stances.  
  
Not with all those guns.  
  
Another pause. Then: “Gotham’s elite will not relinquish their stranglehold on power willingly. If change is to come to Gotham, it will have to be brought about by force.”  
  
The dread starts heading inward, settling in the pit of John’s stomach, in his chest. “What sort of force?” When Bane only stares at him, John answers it himself, voice hollow: “Deadly force. If necessary.”  
  
“If necessary,” Bane echoes, nodding.  
  
John’s on his feet before he even realises it. “Jesus. Jesus fucking– oh _fuck,_ ” he gasps out, running a hand through his hair. He’d already known, and he hadn’t. He’d seen what was happening, and he hadn’t. He just– hadn’t thought it was going to be this _big_. Nothing John had allowed himself to imagine had been like this.  
  
Bane doesn’t seem bothered by John’s reaction at all. “You draw the line at such measures?” He asks, and his voice seems amused, if anything. “You are willing to look the other way when I deal with my men as I see fit, but now you draw the line?” _You hypocrite,_ his tone seems to say.  
  
“I’ve _always_ drawn the line at killing people, I just–” John grits his teeth, frustrated. He doesn’t want to give voice to the fact he’d compromised his ethics to get Bane’s agreement on John taking charge of the kids. Because killing is _wrong_. It’s just wrong. John knows it in his bones. He’d never needed scripture or a priest to tell him so. He’d known it ever since the cops and child services had taken him away from his home.  
  
“It bothers you. The thought of killing,” Bane says dispassionately.  
  
“Of course it fucking bothers me. How the fuck can it not bother me? I’m not– I’m not like _you,_ ” John spits, backing away from Bane.  
  
Bane’s impassivity sounds horrific now, not calming. John can hardly believe that this is the same man who’s talked him down more than once from a panic attack.  
  
But _it_ is the same man – has _always_ been the same man. The memory of Bane killing one of his subordinates for bringing John and the Commissioner down to the tunnels rears its head; the memory of almost being strangled to death, of Bane snapping that construction worker’s neck follows.  
  
John wants to punch himself for ever letting his guard down, for thinking Bane’s flashes of humanity could ever–  
  
“You do not believe killing could ever be justified?”  
  
John stops backing away. Bane’s voice is still mostly inflectionless, but there’s a note of curiosity in there somewhere. Like he’s never heard of someone with that opinion before. Jesus, what kind of fucked up place had Bane come from?  
  
“I– no,” John says, looking at Bane warily. “I don’t.”  
  
“What about the man who attempted to abduct the girl?” Bane asks, like he’s been reading John’s mind.  
  
John shakes his head vehemently. “ _No._ I _told_ you. I told you then and you didn’t listen. You could have made him go to the cops. You could’ve made him get help. But no. You decided to fucking kill him.”  
  
“Because the men–”  
  
“Will only obey you if they know you’re going to back up your threats,” John interrupts impatiently, “I know. I remember. I didn’t agree with you then, and I don’t agree with you now. There were other options, but you didn’t want to take them. Your back wasn’t up against a wall, you _decided_ to kill him. That’s on you.”  
  
“It does not weigh on my conscience at all,” Bane says, so easily that John knows that it’s true.  
  
“It’d be kind of hard for it to,” John snaps, “since you’d need to have a conscience first.”  
  
And that, of all things, gets a reaction out of Bane. He rears his head back a little, stares down the length of his nose at John. John thinks Bane’s lips would be twisted back into a sneer, if John could see his mouth.  
  
“Being willing to kill for just reasons does not make a man devoid of conscience,” Bane says, his voice cold.  
  
What– _is Bane actually offended?_ John stares up at him incredulously. “Maybe not,” he says, before his voice goes low with quiet conviction, “but there’s no reason you could come up with that could justify killing someone.”  
  
“You are certain of this,” Bane says, and John can’t tell if he sounds contemptuous or confused. Maybe a bit of both.  
  
“I am,” John replies.  
  
Bane snorts, shaking his head. “Deontological ethics,” he mutters.  
  
“Deonto– _what?_ ” John says, squinting at Bane.  
  
“Deontological ethics,” Bane says. “The ethical position that the morality of one’s actions is based on one’s adherence to certain rules. Adherence to categorical imperatives, if you follow Kant. The categorical imperative that killing is wrong, for example.”  
  
It feels like they’re back on more familiar ground now, debating abstract topics. Except they’re not. But there’s nothing John can do right now. So he says,  
  
“Yeah. I guess you could say that’s how I feel about it.” He looks off to the side, then back at Bane. “What do you follow? The ends justify the means?” He tries to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.  
  
And Bane goes back to being amused. “Consequentialism. Yes. Nevertheless, I _do_ have ethics. As do all of us in the League.”  
  
The League again. Fuck, is that what all this has been about? John opens his mouth to ask why the hell Bane couldn’t have just said that in the first place, but Bane keeps talking, saying, “And I ask you this, Blake: would Gotham not have been better off if those who contributed to its decay been removed definitively?”  
  
“You mean would Gotham be a better place if we killed everyone that broke the law?”  
  
Bane shrugs a little.  
  
“No,” John says flatly, “because people make mistakes, sometimes, and they deserve second chances. And because we’d be the monsters then, for killing them.”  
  
Bane waves a hand back at the crates, clearly indicating for John to sit back down. There’s no reason for John to refuse, but he still sits down warily.  
  
“What makes you so sure? When you have clearly never killed?” Bane asks.  
  
John crosses his arms. “What, you think I actually need to commit a crime before I can have an opinion on it?” And he’s playing dumb here, just a little, but he’s not sure he wants to talk to Bane about this. It’s edging into dangerous, discomforting territory.  
  
Bane gives him a look that seems to say _I know what you’re doing_ , but still he answers: “Not at all. But I find such certainty unusual, in one who hasn’t killed. And perhaps unwise.”  
  
“Yeah? Would you think it was so unusual or unwise if you knew that person lost their dad because somebody gunned him down?” John snaps, before he can think about it. He regrets it instantly when the expression in Bane’s eyes changes to a knowing one, and John rushes on, irritated,  
  
“Don’t think you know everything about me, just because of that,” he says, because Bane _doesn’t_ , and he’s an arrogant son of a bitch for looking at John like he does. “You know a few things. You know about some bad shit. But you don’t know everything. That’s not the only reason I know that killing is wrong.”  
  
Bane makes a wide, sweeping gesture for John to keep going. “By all means then, Blake. Illuminate me.”  
  
And shit, John had walked straight into that one, hadn’t he? John looks away, mouth thin. “I don’t have to tell you anything,” he mutters, clinging to the remnants of his resistance.  
  
“Indeed you do not,” Bane agrees. There’s an indrawn breath, like Bane’s getting ready to say more, but then it simply turns into a long exhale. Bane’s waiting him out.  
  
The silence puts John on edge, and he shakes his head. “Why do you want to know so much?” he asks, to buy himself more time. “Still testing to see if I’m suitable for the League?”  
  
“I am certain now that you would do well in the League,” Bane replies. “Any of the masters would be fortunate to have you as a pupil, for all that you are impetuous. You learn quickly, and you are disciplined in your own fashion. I ask simply because you are a curiosity to me.” And again, it’s said so _easily_ , so _simply_. No falseness to Bane’s tone at all, and John’s gotten good at picking up when he’s being played – he’s had to. Bane’s working some kind of angle, John’s sure of it, but Bane’s being honest about this.  
  
And part of John is tempted. He’s seen the way Bane’s men are with one another. The open friendship, the sense of brotherhood that John hasn’t had since he aged out of St. Swithin’s. It isn’t the same with the kids because they’re– well, kids. He thinks of the rapidly formed bond between himself and Barsad; imagines having a bond like that with all the men in the League, and it surprises him how _badly_ he wants that.  
  
He’d never realised how lonely he was.  
  
John sighs and puts his head in his hands, suddenly tired. Tired of fighting Bane – in more ways than one – and tired of keeping things to himself all the time. “I tried to kill someone,” he says quietly into his hands. “Once.”  
  
More leather creaking and the rustle of cloth, and John looks up from his hands to see Bane leaning closer, just hovering on the outskirts of John’s personal space again. Even at this distance, John can feel the warmth radiating from Bane. “When?” Bane asks.  
  
John looks back down. Doesn’t want to see Bane’s shrewd look when he says, “When I was twelve.”  
  
Bane doesn’t immediately start pressing for details. Doesn’t say anything, really, and that, for some reason, is encouraging to John. He starts talking hesitantly: “It was... I was in a foster home. There were– it was one of those homes where the kids were just a way of getting a paycheck, you know? They’re not all like that. I was in two good foster homes before that one.” Not good enough that they’d been willing to keep John, though, when it became apparent he wasn’t getting over his loss the way they would have liked. John has to pause as he swallows the old bitterness down.  
  
After another quick glance at Bane, he forces himself to keep going. “This foster home was in Red Hook, just north of the Narrows. So, you know, it wasn’t really that great to start off with. And there were five of us kids. It was a three bedroom house, but– still. It was...” John’s hands start moving restlessly – flicking over the cuff of his shirt, the corner of the crate he’s sitting on; nervous energy growing as the memory creeps up on him. “He kept– going into their room. At night. The two youngest kids. Girls. He’d send one of them out, into our room, but the other one–” Johns throat goes tight.  
  
Bane makes a quiet, disgusted sound under his breath, and that’s reassuring too. Brings the human side of Bane to the fore in John’s eyes again. John finds it a little easier to keep talking then, and his words start tumbling out, slightly fragmented as he weaves between memory and the present.  
  
“I tried to talk to the other kids – the older kids – about it. They just told me to shut my mouth. That we were lucky it wasn’t us. So then I tried talking to Carly and Jen. Told them I’d go with them to the cops, even. But they didn’t want to – they were too scared. And it was just– I was _so fucking desperate_. I couldn’t just leave them. They’d... cry. My bed was closest to the wall, and I could hear them crying after he was... done. I couldn’t take it anymore.  
  
“So... there was this one night, when I knew he was going to go into their room. I took a knife from the kitchen. And I waited, and when I heard him go inside – I could hear him climbing onto the bed – I just. Burst in.” John chokes a little, has to cough before he can continue. “I stabbed him in the leg. Right in the thigh. It was horrible. There was blood everywhere– when I yanked the knife back out. It was horrible,” John says again, quietly, before lapsing into silence.  
  
He doesn’t have the words. He can’t describe the revulsion he’d felt at himself, the second he’d pulled the knife out, and the blood had splattered – spurted, really – over his hands, his arms, his face, soaking into his clothes (he’d hit an artery, he learned later). And John had realised that, for all that the man - Danny Finch - was a piece of shit, for all he was disgusting, he was still a _person_. He had a wife, he had friends – and if John killed him, John would be responsible for severing all those ties. Just like someone had cut John’s father away from him. And he couldn’t do that, he _couldn’t_ – he couldn’t be that person–  
  
“He disarmed you. Stabbed you in turn. That is why you were placed in hospital,” Bane concludes, interrupting John’s distantly horrified recollection.  
  
John blinks. “What–? Oh. The– yeah.” He rubs his shoulder unconsciously. Can feel the thick ridge of scar tissue through the cotton of his shirt. “Yeah. It took a while. For me to heal. They told me he lived. I never saw him, or anyone from that house again. But I had a lot of time to think, in the hospital. I knew I never wanted to do that again.” He glances at Bane from the corner of his eye; holds his gaze obliquely. “So there’s your answer. That’s why I’m certain that murder is wrong. Satisfied?”  
  
For the first time, Bane’s the one to look away first. “You are a strange man, John Blake,” he says in an undertone.  
  
John snorts. “That’s all you have to say about it?”  
  
Bane seems to be thinking. When he looks back at John, it’s to say intently, “Did you learn anything else from that incident?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Another semi-shrug, one that still looks bizarre with Bane’s massive frame. “You learned that you draw the line at murder. But what of your conception of justice? Of the law?”  
  
John gives him a silent _‘ah’_ of understanding. He gets what Bane means now. “They’re not the same. Sometimes the law fails, and you have to get justice on your own. Believe me, I was given plenty of opportunities to learn _that_.” Like when the courts had charged John with assault and sentenced him to three months of juvie. John had run away the instant he’d been let out. He lets out a dark, contemptuous huff of laughter at the memory, before adding,  
  
“I used to think Batman was all about that. _True_ justice. But in the end, he just turned out to be... another guy. And that’s when I learned you can’t put your faith in anyone. Just yourself and your people.”  
  
That gets a pleased sort of sound from Bane. “The League would agree with you there,” he says. And after a short pause: “In knowing all that, Blake, surely you understand why–”  
  
“I get why you’re going to start a revolution,” John cuts in, and he’s pleased with himself for not stumbling over the word. “I even agree with you that Gotham needs one. And I’m pretty sure you knew that already, actually. But I don’t agree with you about using deadly force. So if you’re... I don’t know, inviting me to join your League or whatever, and that’s how you guys do things? I’m gonna say no thanks. Thanks, but no thanks.” It makes him feel a little hollow, the thought of giving up the chance at that kind of brotherhood, but John knows he wouldn’t be able to live with the other choice.  
  
Bane only blinks at him. John eyes him cautiously – Bane doesn’t look pissed. He seems mostly... confused, and that makes John flounder a little. Had he gotten it wrong? Had Bane not been angling to recruit John into the League?  
  
They stare at one another, long enough that John’s confusion evaporates and starts edging into discomfort. Bane’s gaze crawls over John – he seems to be taking all of John in, and assessing him again. John tries not to cringe, even though he can’t stop staring.  
  
But finally, Bane blinks, and the charged atmosphere drains away.  
  
“Very well,” Bane says formally. “Then it will be as it has been. You will continue to take charge of the children. But,” and John sincerely hopes it’s just his imagination that makes Bane’s voice sound slightly foreboding, “this will need to be discussed again. Your place and the place of the children will need to be discussed, when the revolution is brought upon Gotham.”  
  
 _When,_ not _if_. And John believes Bane, that it will only be a matter of when. So, “When that happens,” John agrees, “we’ll talk about it again.”  
  
There’s a smile in Bane’s eyes at that, openly pleased. “We have a deal then, Blake,” he says, and he holds his hand out.  
  
John takes it. Bane’s hand is big, warm, with callouses dotting the palm and running the length of his fingers. Those big fingers curl around John’s, and then they’re shaking hands firmly.  
  
John shrugs off the feeling that he’s just made a deal with the devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but Bane and Blake this chapter, yo. I unofficially dubbed this chapter 'All Dialogue, All the Time'. 
> 
> I'm... not going to say when the next chapter will come out this time, because my hopeful nattering about this one coming out faster resulted in me committing some whopping acts of self-sabotage. All I will say is that I've already started writing Chapter 16. _That is all._ As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting, everyone  <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to sorelh for answering my French-related queries, as well as translating future phrases from Royer for me <3
> 
> And all the thanks in the world will not be enough for [saeadame](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saeadame), best beloved beta. These two chapters would never have been completed without her cheerleading, plot problem solving, and thoroughness.
> 
> WARNING: Examination of long-term effects of childhood prostitution

“My fingers have gone all wrinkly,” Roy complains. He holds his hands up from the tub of rice he’s washing.

“Aww, let me see,” Jade coos, already starting to put the potato she’s peeling aside.

“Enough, you two,” John cuts in firmly.

Jade screws her face up at him, but pulls her hand back, and returns to peeling. Roy looks distinctly crestfallen. Beyond tired, John just gives him a look and wordlessly points at the rice. Roy goes back to washing with a disgruntled mutter.

They’re sitting with Aguda and Tim, in the midst of food prep duty. Technically, Aguda really only needs John and Tim for food prep — the food he makes is hardly complicated; there just needs to be huge amounts of it.

But John’s brought Jade and Roy along to assist anyway, because he’s found that he can no longer trust them not to go sneaking off during work hours. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass what they do during down time, but he’s already gotten three sharp comments from Bane’s men about two of his kids ditching work to get laid. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out which two.

God save him from teenage relationships.

Still, even with Roy grumbling under his breath about being cockblocked, food prep is a nice change from moving supplies, hauling away rubble, or cleaning equipment. John doesn’t even mind that Aguda’s ordering him and the kids around with all the bluster of an army mess cook. Hell, for all John knows, that’s what Aguda used to do before he joined Bane’s League.

Even if he wasn’t relieved at the change in routine, John would probably still let Aguda ordering them around slide. Because, aside from Barsad (and Bane, he supposes), Aguda is the only League man who speaks to him for any extended amount of time.

Not that the other League men are unfriendly, exactly. But John’s well aware that their interest in him begins and ends with his ability to keep the kids in line.

The League men acting uninterested, however, is still better than how the outsider mercs act – and John can tell them apart from the League men now, can do it easily, even. Because where the League men react with indifference, the mercs chafe openly whenever they have to defer to him, and they make it clear that they’re only doing it under threat, and out of fear of Bane’s punishment. John’s caught them, more than once, trying to shove the kids around when they think he isn’t there, although they back off quickly when they notice him.

The difference is so stark that John’s kind of appalled that it took him so long to notice – so much for his observation skills – and he has no choice but to own up to the fact he’d been wilfully blind on more than just the League’s plan for Gotham.

Rolling his eyes at his thoughts a little (what use is kicking himself over it now?), John sets his peeler aside; is just starting to rise and turn away for another box of supplies when he sees Tim tense up out the corner of his eye. A second later, his body goes into high alert at the unfamiliar presence at his side. John drops back into a slight crouch and pivots swiftly on the balls of his feet. Ends up meeting the mild, inquisitive gaze of a man in his late twenties — stocky in body, with a long face and dark blond hair.

John stares at him in silence, not moving out of his defensive crouch. Aguda rumbles something in that mongrel dialect John can’t place, and the man’s gaze flickers briefly to him before returning to John. He makes an attempt at a friendly smile, but the best that John can say for it is that it’s non-threatening.

After a few more seconds of staring, the man says carefully, “I am Jean-Paul.” He gives John an expectant look.

John looks around. Aside from Aguda, none of Bane’s men — or the outsider mercs — seem concerned that this Jean-Paul guy is talking to him.

“… Okay,” John says, looking back at him, “is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Jean-Paul’s eyebrows hop, and he looks a little taken aback. There’s a beat before he says, “I had thought that— well, perhaps— never mind. It is no matter,” he makes a weirdly fussy hand gesture, like he’s brushing something away from his face. Then he clears his throat and lifts his chin, saying, “I am Jean-Paul Royer. Most call me Royer, as it is shorter.” He hesitates only briefly before adding, “I am Daniel’s lover.”

John rears back, and he can feel his lip curling back as his hostility ramps up. In a low voice he says, “You’ve got fucking balls, walking up to me and telling me that.”

Royer looks somewhat apologetic, but mostly annoyed. “Yes. Daniel said you might react this way.”

“ _Daniel_ said— what, do you two talk about me when—” and, okay, yeah— no way John’s going to let his mind go that way. “Is there some other way I’m supposed to react when I find out a grown man is putting it to a kid under my protection?”

“I understand you have… misgivings. But I assure you — those misgivings, they are unnecessary.”

“Thanks,” John sneers. “I feel completely reassured now.”

That gets a long, exaggerated sigh from Royer. “I cannot make you believe me—”

“Glad that’s clear.”

Royer gives him a distinctly annoyed look, which pleases John; he doesn’t give a shit if he’s being unreasonable.

But, rather than backing off like a person with normal social instincts, Royer just sets his jaw and repeats, “I cannot make you believe me. But I thought… perhaps we may clear the air.”

John looks around again. Most of the kids have slowed down to stare, if not stopped working outright, and there are more than a few League men watching too.

The atmosphere is _just_ on this side of tense. Other than Barsad, no one in the League has spoken to John for an extended length of time. Everyone seems like they want to see how this plays out, and shit, John needs to tread carefully here. Deal with Bane or no, he can’t afford to shit off an entire tunnel system full of armed men.

He turns back to Royer and raises an eyebrow. “Clear the air how?” he says slowly.

Royer looks pleased at this slight concession. He lowers himself into a slight crouch and brings his hands up to complete a defensive stance. “How else?” he asks. He practically _trills_ the words.

“You want to _spar?_ ”

Royer nods enthusiastically. “To clear the air.”

John gives him a disbelieving stare. “... I don’t know how you came up with that idea, but that’s not going to resolve shit.”

That gets Royer blinking. “… But you have been training in our ways.”

“Well, I haven’t been training in that,” John says. Seriously, is this how they work things out in the League? Whoever wins a slap fight is declared right? God, no wonder Bane and Barsad’s world views are so skewed.

Royer looks even more uncertain. “You... have been training with the _bâtard_ , yes?”

“The what?”

“The bâtard.” Particularly French roll of the ‘r’ on that word and, the way Royer says it, it sounds like it deserves capitals — The Bâtard. “You call him Barsad.”

John snorts. The word is close enough to its English counterpart that he can guess at its meaning, and he feels strangely defensive on Barsad’s behalf all of a sudden. Not that John hasn’t called Barsad a bastard in his head a dozen times — hell, John’s called Barsad that to his face — but still. John’s earned the right to, and he says it with the easy disrespect of a friend. Not like this Royer guy, who says it with a smirk and a slightly derogatory tone.

“You call him that to his face?” John asks coolly.

Royer’s eyebrows go up and he starts to smile slyly. “Do I look like a suicidal man?”

“You tell me. You’re the one who just admitted to me that you’re screwing one of my kids.”

Royer wags a finger under John’s nose, like every caricature of a French person _ever_. “Such vulgarity,” he scolds.

John steps back. “Whatever. Look— you and Daniel? I can’t stop him. I’m not fucking happy about it, but I can’t stop him. However, that being said, if you don’t get out of my face right now, I won’t hesitate to break your goddamn nose. So get lost.”

He turns away, dismissing Royer from his notice; bends to pick up his box of supplies again and—

John senses the blow coming at the last second.

He twists away, dropping the box with a thump and sending potatoes scattering everywhere. Gets one arm up to deflect the punch that would’ve slammed into the back of his skull had he stood still—

—and the strike is still hard enough that John’s forearm immediately explodes into pain.

John jerks back and drops into a defensive stance again. “The fuck are you doing?” he snaps.

Royer just grins maniacally at him and goes for his throat.

Barsad and Bane’s relentless training takes over then, and John reacts instinctively. He’s vaguely aware of pots and pans clattering as Tim, Jade and Roy scatter, of Aguda bellowing – at him or Royer, he’s not sure, maybe both – but he has no time to check.

Royer fights with that same cheerful menace as Barsad, but with more loose-limbed, elaborate strikes thrown in. He’s not nearly as viper-quick as Barsad, though, nor is he as overwhelming as Bane. It’s almost astonishingly easy for him to dodge Royer’s strikes, although Royer’s fast enough that half of John’s attacks are deflected too.

Still— only half of them are being blocked. John’s just that little bit better, and the look in Royer’s eyes says he’s starting to realise it. But he’s not backing down – he’s grinning _wider_.

There’s a crowd gathering. John becomes aware of them by degrees, standing on the periphery of some invisible ring, and a sick sense of dread starts to war with his indignation. Is this it? Is this— not Bane’s men, but those other guys, did they convince Royer to take John out – is _this_ it?

No, John decides after a moment. It’s not. Because:

“The bâtard has finally taken a _kija-jun,_ ” Royer crows to the crowd at large, like a showman, a ringmaster, and there’s answering rumble of– of _amusement_ from the crowd. It’s all League men at the front, but there are mercenaries sprinkled throughout, and all of them are treating John and Royer’s fight like it’s a _show,_ what the _fuck_.

John scowls and hammers Royer with a palm strike to the chest. Royer reels back, gasping. Then he lets out a reedy laugh and lunges for John again, aiming a spear hand strike right for his eyes.

John ducks beneath his arm; grabs his wrist and drives the heel of his palm toward Royer’s elbow. It’ll be a nasty break if he connects, but Royer twists his arm – fuck, is he _double-jointed?_ – and, just like that, he’s out of John’s grip. Royer shuffles a few steps back, completely on the defensive now.

 _Good,_ John thinks savagely.

The motherfucker started this, and John’s going to finish it. It may not be the attack he’s still dreading, but John can’t afford to lose this fight either – not with all these witnesses. He advances on Royer—

—and then the man raises his hand up high.

One of the League men at the front of the crowd removes a pair of bamboo sticks – no, _batons_ from his person and tosses them into the air; Royer catches them without looking and brandishes them at John.

Fuck.

“Are you freaking serious?” John snarls.

Royer opens his mouth, but before he can respond, another voice rings out, saying, “You expect a true fight to always be fair, Blake? There are no rules in combat.”

Bane. There’s no mistaking that reverberant voice, or its courtly tone.

John risks a quick sideways glance and, yeah, there’s Bane and Barsad, standing on the raised central platform, watching from over the heads of the crowd.

Well, _double_ fuck.

John grits his teeth and raises his arms higher. Lifts his chin at Royer, a non-verbal _‘come and get me’_ and a _‘fuck you’_ rolled into one.

Royer’s grin threatens to split his skull and he dives at John, sticks whirling. John’s forced to backpedal almost immediately, swearing. His mind races. He needs to take Royer down fast, but he has no weapons – there isn’t even debris he can throw in Royer’s face to distract him. He needs to get in close, but those batons have turned Royer into a whirling dervish with added reach, promising crippling pain if he gets near.

In the end, the solution he strikes upon is laughably easy. John begins darting around. He keeps crates and pillars between him and Royer as often as possible. The human circle opens up until he’s got almost the entire floor to fight on, but he’s _not_ fighting.

He’s defending, dodging instead – content to let Royer expend his energy in flicking his batons and lunging forward – waiting for Royer to tire out.

Eventually, Royer’s arms sag. Only for a second— but it’s the moment John’s waiting for. He darts in at an angle; aims one— two— punches to Royer’s kidneys. Follows it up with an elbow strike that catches Royer clean to the underside of his chin.

Royer goes down, retching a little from both the kidney punches and the elbow; he drops the sticks with a clatter, and John kicks them away hurriedly.

There’s a brief, stunned silence.

And suddenly the assembled men are _roaring_. John starts backing up, his alarm ratcheting up to danger zone levels— until he realises the roaring is _congratulatory_ (with some jeering at Royer mixed in).

John rocks back on his heels, bewildered.

Tim appears at his elbow, Mark and Emilio close on his heels, and grabs at his sleeve. “Oh my God,” he shouts above the noise, “Oh my God, that was _awesome_ —” and it mixes in with Emilio’s “Holy shit,” and Mark’s excited laughter.

John grins so widely his cheeks hurt. He can’t _help_ it. Not with the boys’ enthusiasm and the congratulatory noise of the League leeching into his bones, warm like welcome sunlight.

The noise dims slightly; John looks up as the crowd parts—

—and Barsad is suddenly in his face, his eyes alight with unholy glee. He hooks an arm around John’s shoulders and pulls him into a rough half-hug that lasts all of a second before releasing him. He follows it up with a congratulatory thump to the back  – one that drives all the air from John’s lungs – then goes to stand over Royer; Barsad’s clearly gloating, although John can’t hear his words over the noise.

But he doesn’t get long to take in the mind-boggling sight of Barsad acting like a five year old to someone else. Tim and Mark start tugging on his arms insistently, dragging him back toward the eastern tunnel where most of the kids are gathered; a bouncing cluster of nervous faces that break into smiles and relieved chatter when they see John and, more importantly, the shit-eating grin he _knows_ is plastered across his face.

He glances up when he nears the central platform, where Bane’s still standing. Ends up meeting Bane’s gaze, fixed and intent.

When he’s almost in front of Bane, John’s feet slow of their own volition, and he shakes the boys’ hands off of him. Waves them on without looking away from Bane.

It’s as if Bane’s stare is pinning him in place. It almost feels like a physical weight against him, and the Bane of John’s fantasies flickers to life, superimposing itself over the Bane standing before him. And, in this instant – riding high on adrenaline and triumph and approval – John’s surprisingly okay with that.

The air between them feels charged with— something. John realises suddenly that he’s breathing in time with Bane.

“Victory through trickery and deception,” Bane says, and the amusement and approval in his voice sends a warm flash through John.

He reaches out when Bane extends a hand, thinking it’s for another handshake, but Bane clasps his forearm instead, gripping firmly. Bane’s fingers against the sensitive underside of his arm send a shiver racing across John’s skin. But he’s seen the League men doing this before, and the gesture speaks of nothing more than casual acceptance and brotherhood.

He grins wider and Bane’s stare shifts to something darker, sharper. The... _thing,_ the weird atmosphere between them stretches tight—

“ _John!_ ”

—and snaps abruptly.

John steps back, blinking. He thinks Bane’s doing the same, but John’s already turning his head to look at whoever called his name.

Hannah is in Daniel’s arms, waving excitedly at him and beaming. Daniel’s face, on the other hand, is a complicated tangle of emotions that John can’t make out from this distance.

When he turns back, Bane’s already walking away.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, John’s striding down toward the tunnel used for training. He’s alone, which is potentially stupid considering the reason he started training in the first place, but the afterglow of victory has him feeling more than a little reckless. And besides, he doesn’t want to stay with the kids.

Because talking to Daniel afterwards had been awkward. _Really_ awkward.

Daniel had been furious – at John and Royer both. John would like to think that, under normal circumstances, he’d have been more understanding toward Daniel. But he’d been buoyed by triumph and basking in the acceptance, and Daniel glowering at him had been the proverbial fly in the ointment.

He’d instantly gone on the defensive. “Your boyfriend started it.” And things had only deteriorated from there.

At the peak of it, Daniel had snapped, “You don’t know anything about how the League works, do you?”

Stunned – because what, Daniel _did?_ Was the League fucking recruiting through sex or something too? – John had snapped sarcastically, “And _you_ do, I suppose?”

“More than you, apparently.”

“Feel free to educate me then.”

And Daniel _had_.

He’d proceeded to outline – in hard, bitten off words – that the League operated on a hierarchy, with respect given to those who proved their worth in combat. Royer had been trying to clear the air by proving he was worthy of Daniel, worthy of John’s approval, which just– oh _God_ , what the ever loving shit?

Voice turning teenager sulky for the first time, Daniel had finished by saying, “I tried to tell Royer, but he wouldn’t listen, and _you_ didn’t even bother to find out anything about the League.”

John had simply gaped, the surreality of Royer acting like John is Daniel’s— Daniel’s _dad_ or something rendering him unable to respond.

Completely off-kilter, he’d turned on his heel and walked away.

He’s restless now, leftover adrenaline still pulsing beneath his skin like a living thing, drowning out even his anxiety about leaving things with Daniel unresolved. By the time he reaches the entrance to the tunnel Barsad repurposed for training, thinking about Daniel has shifted to thinking about _Bane_.

About the approval in his eyes, and the acceptance when he’d grasped John’s arm. About the shiver of sensation that had washed along John’s skin at the touch, and how it had been completely devoid of remembered horror. It had felt _normal._

 _John_ had felt normal, and he wants to feel like that again.

He’s moved behind the crates without realising. John stares down at the ground, surprised. He’s standing in almost the exact same spot he’d been when he’d—

And he can feel the flush crawling up his neck, up his face, even as arousal coils in his gut then travels outward in low throbs. It sends sweet, drugging warmth snaking through his limbs, and John swallows. This— he can do it again, can’t he? He can.

But, more than just being able to, John realises suddenly that he _wants_ to. Because this— will be different. From all the other times.

He won’t be doing it because some john picked him up for the night and told him to perform for his voyeuristic pleasure. He won’t be doing it because he’s under pressure from Barsad (however well-intentioned that pressure was). And he _definitely_ won’t be doing it immediately on the heels of first realising he’s attracted to Bane.

It will just be him, John Blake, doing it because his body is hopped up on residual adrenaline and endorphins, and he _feels like it_.

John hasn’t felt like it in a long, long time.

Determined to chase that strange, addictive feeling of normalcy, John lowers himself down to the ground.

He slouches, almost sprawls against the crates, and it’s not difficult at all to keep his hands steady as he unzips his pants and shoves them down. He almost starts laughing, a weird glee rising in him like champagne bubbles alongside the arousal.

Doesn’t end up laughing because the concrete is cold against his bare ass, and it makes him hiss instead. His next breath hisses out of him for a totally different reason when he palms himself – only half-hard but growing harder by the second – and the absence of nausea is almost as good as the low jolt in his belly.

John glances down. He’s not— watching, exactly, but he’s not deliberately averting his gaze either, when he wraps his hand around his cock and gives himself one firm stroke.

Electricity sparks across his skin immediately and the breath rushes out of his lungs. It makes him tighten his fist reflexively, and when he jacks himself some more, it feels good – _amazingly_ good. But it ends up being nothing compared to when he accidentally thumbs the head of his cock and, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ; John’s hips buck up, helpless.

He swipes his thumb over the suddenly-damp head again– then again, and again, and _again_. Settles into a rhythm, fast and hard; flicks his wrist on every upstroke so he can palm and rub that spot on the underside of his cock, the one that gets his skin prickling with sweat and his dick dripping further.

And when his brain starts calling up images, John doesn’t bother suppressing them. They’re fractured, disjointed fantasies; firm, high breasts and full hips featuring as much as broad shoulders and powerful thighs. John remembers sliding into warm, wet heat, and he remembers the feel of another person’s fingers on his dick.

That gets him circling back onto Bane.

He replays it over and over, the flush of arousal that had run through him at Bane’s touch. Tries to imagine how it would feel if Bane had not only grasped his forearm, but _yanked_ – pulled John tight against him like he does during training—

John’s breath catches in his throat at the thought and— God— _God yes_ —

When his orgasm hits him, it hits suddenly, hard and all at once; rockets up his spine and down his balls in breath stealing pulses as he shoots into his hand, and John’s eyes roll back a little as his world goes hazy.

He comes back to himself bit by bit. John blinks up at the ceiling, post-orgasmic lethargy seeping through him. He feels— fine. He still feels fine. He doesn’t know if he would’ve felt fine if he’d tried it under normal circumstances (and what passed for normal down here?), but—

 _You jerked off and you came,_ he tells himself. _Don’t overthink it._

Right. John pushes aside the impending clamour of thoughts – what did it mean, that he’d come twice now thinking about Bane? Could he do it again? Did he _want_ to do it again? – in favour of more prosaic concerns. Like what to do with the sticky mess all over his hand.

He settles for wiping it on the hem of his shirt, grimacing. He’ll have to wash it soon, and washing clothing in the tunnels sucked.

When he returns to the eastern tunnel, he’s surprised to see Daniel sitting near the entrance, obviously waiting for him. They stare at one another, neither quite sure what to say.

His body still languid and his brain calm now, John gives in first. “It’s none of my business, what you and Royer do. I...” he purses his lips a little, trying to put his words into thoughts. “I’ve got... issues. But they’ve got nothing to do with you. What you two have going on... it’s different. I get that.”

And he does. Daniel’s reaction to John’s over-protection, whilst being typically teenaged in its defiance, had also been kind of— mature. A ‘this is my business, fuck off’ adult ownership of his relationship, rather than a teenager’s ‘leave me alone, I need to be with him’ resentful pleading.

It’s reassuring, in a completely ass backwards way.

Daniel looks mollified, but still a little worried. “About... those issues—”

… Yeah, no. Just no. No way John’s going to be psychoanalysed or consoled by a seventeen year old. He holds up a hand, wry half-smile crooking the corner of his mouth. “Not happening, Daniel. It’s my shit to deal with, not yours, okay? Just... make sure Royer doesn’t come back for round two.”

Daniel shuts his mouth and shakes his head, smiling slightly. “He won’t go for a second round unless Bane lets him.”

Huh. Interesting. John will have to check that later. Or something. With Bane. Tomorrow, though.

Right now, he’s far more interested in savouring the delicious, warm laxness of his body, and the (however temporary) freedom from his sexual hang ups. He pats Daniel vaguely on the shoulder in passing and drags himself to his cot.

He’s out the second his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, _so_ sorry for the delay. I have no excuses, I just got blocked. But... at least there are two chapters?


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Violence, death (non-main character)

In the days following his fight with Royer, the attitudes of the League men toward John change abruptly. Whereas his presence had previously been met with casual indifference, the men now seem to be going out of their way to acknowledge him – they nod at him when they pass, or clap him on the shoulder; the eldest of the men even _ruffle his hair_.

It’s— it’s nice. More than nice, if John’s being honest. It’s heady, being accepted by them (and having some actual adult company), even though he’d nearly jumped out of his skin the first time it had happened.

He’d immediately knocked away the hand that landed on his shoulder, whirling around and bringing his arms up to defend himself. His would-be congratulator – a gap-toothed Palestinian man who later introduced himself as Kaleem – had responded with laughter and fearlessly patted him on the shoulder again, saying, “Good, good! Ferocity is good, _kija-jun_.”

And there’s that word again, too. Royer had called him that during the fight, and it seems to have caught on.

John caves into his curiosity after a few days. “The men keep calling me kija-jun,” he says. “Royer called me _your_ kija-jun. What does it mean?”

They’re in the training tunnel (as John has decided to name it) but not sparring, for once. Just sitting, because this tunnel is the only place they can go where neither of them will be bothered by demands, from either the kids or the other men.

Barsad’s screwing something together; it looks a hell of a lot like a detonator, and part of John cringes as he watches him assemble it. He doesn’t look up when he says, “In the language of the League it means ‘vessel’.”

“... Vessel,” John repeats slowly. He’s pretty damn sure the League men aren’t calling him Barsad’s boat.

“Perhaps ‘receptacle’ is a better translation.”

 _Receptacle?_ John thinks disbelievingly. “Are you serious? Are you _fucking serious?_ ” he snaps, outrage rising as quickly as his stomach is plummeting. So much for being accepted as an equal by the League. “Do you guys have some fucking ancient Greek thing going on or something? First Royer and Daniel, now they think I’m your–” John can’t even finish, outrage strangling his voice.

Barsad glances up from his half-finished gadget, blinking slowly at John, and says, “A receptacle. For storing knowledge.”

John’s descent into furious humiliation is abruptly halted. “... What?”

“The literal translation is ‘receptacle’, but it means ‘receiver of knowledge’. A chosen disciple, or a student.” Barsad’s voice turns sly. “Why? What did _you_ think it meant?”

“I... you _motherfucker_ ,” John says, to which Barsad snorts. “You _know_ what I thought— you know why—” and he can’t finish that sentence either, but only because he’s starting to laugh. “What’s _wrong_ with you, that you’d even make a joke about that?” he finally manages to get out.

“What’s wrong with _you_ , that you’re laughing at it?” Barsad counters, and that gets John laughing harder. Barsad just shakes his head at him and keeps working on his possible instrument of destruction.

After he calms down, John watches Barsad for a while before asking, “Why’s it such a big deal that I’m your student?”

“Who said it was a big deal?”

 _He’s such a dick,_ John thinks with an amused huff. “Royer did. He said that you’d finally found a _kija-jun_. Emphasis on the ‘finally’. And the men sounded like they agreed.”

Barsad doesn’t answer immediately, which further cements John’s conviction that it _is_ a big deal. He’s just opening his mouth to grill Barsad further when he hears:

“Because Barsad is not known for taking on disciples.”

Barsad doesn’t react at all, but John jumps a little, is startled into sitting up straighter. He twists around to see Bane standing at the mouth of the tunnel, his head cocked.

“Do not sit with your back to entranceways,” Bane scolds as he comes to crouch down easily beside John. John lets out a huff – like anyone’s really going to attack him when both Barsad _and_ Bane are around? – but spins around obediently until he can keep an eye on the tunnel entrance while still keeping Bane and Barsad in his field of vision.

He has to crane his head slightly to do it, because Bane’s just inside his personal space, like he had been when he’d been systematically desensitising John to his touch. He’s wearing that vest again, baring his massive arms – which John can’t keep himself from eyeing a little – and he’s radiating heat like a miniature sun.

Jesus. John’s intensely hyper-aware of how _close_ Bane is, all of a sudden; it gets his nerves jangling, makes his limbs go slightly weak. Weirdly, the shame and nausea usually surrounding his attraction feels muted, like a distant echo. But John can still sense it lurking far beneath his skin, ready to take him over if he lets it.

He doesn’t want to let it.

He wants to keep feeling normal for as long as he can possibly manage, and if acknowledging the fact that Bane turns him on is part of that, then goddamn it, he’ll acknowledge it.

Then Bane says, “You are the first student Barsad has ever taken on of his own volition.”

That jars John right out of his train of thought. His eyebrows go up. “No shit?” Bane gives him a long blank look. It goes on long enough that John amends it to: “Really?”

“Yes,” Barsad answers before Bane can, voice clipped. Bane’s veiled amusement suddenly becomes overt.

John turns his head to look at Barsad, mouth crooking up into a smirk. But before he can say anything, Barsad socks him – _hard_ – in the shoulder.

“ _Ow!_ Screw you,” John says through laughter. He wriggles his arm a little and adds, “I think you made my arm go numb, asshole.”

“A student who cannot block that is a poor student.”

“Maybe I have a crap teacher,” John says, grinning, because it’s so far from the truth it’s ridiculous. Barsad’s a good teacher, for all he’s a dick whilst instructing. Which raises the question... “Why haven’t you taught anyone else before?”

“I have. But I did not choose my past students.”

“So why now? Why me?”

“Fishing for compliments?”

It’s a half-hearted attempt at deflection – John shrugs off the jibe easily and turns to Bane instead for answers. Bane just gives him another politely blank look.

John rolls his eyes. “You’re both going to be like that, huh? Fine.”

He flops back to lay on the ground, wondering how long he has left before he has to go back and check on the kids. Has a small, horrifying vision of returning to the eastern tunnel and finding half of them having a screaming, knockdown, drag out fight—

“You did well against Royer,” Bane says, out of nowhere. Barsad mutters something that sounds a lot like: _‘It was Royer,’_ and Bane snorts.

John flips Barsad off lazily then turns his head to look up at Bane, saying, “Thanks?”

But the mention of Royer gets him thinking of Daniel, and the things he’d said about the League’s view of John being a surrogate dad (which— still, no. Brother, he might accept. But dad? Just no).

He stops himself from opening with ‘Daniel mentioned...’ because he’s not sure Daniel is _supposed_ to know anything about the League. Maybe Royer’s mouthy after fucking. He seems the sort. “What was Royer’s deal?” he says instead.

“Royer thought he could alleviate your disfavour by proving his worth.”

John runs that through his mental Bane-to-normal-speech translator. It fits with what Daniel told him, but– “Yeah, that still doesn’t make sense. I don’t give a shit about how tough he is – I care about making sure Daniel’s okay.”

“Being able to protect his lover is part of ensuring his well-being. Hence Royer attempting to prove himself in combat.”

Oh God, what? John slaps a hand over his eyes. “I don’t— what kind of world do you guys live in? I wasn’t serious when I asked Barsad if you guys are doing some kind of ancient Greek shit, but maybe I should’ve been.”

“We do not live soft lives.” Which is true. John’s watched the men together – there’s a combative, competitive edge to everything that they do, even more so than the way Barsad and John behave toward one another. But still—

“That somehow means you all forgot how the rest of the world works?”

“The League is insular by necessity.”

“Why?”

“To ensure our judgement remains impartial.”

“Because of the starting revolutions thing,” John says. Bane nods. John props himself up on his elbows. “Right. Okay, I can see that. But... judgement? Who’re you to judge what cities need a revolution? What gives you the right?” He frowns at Bane. He’s not exactly sure why the idea bothers him, but it _does_.

And maybe no one’s ever questioned Bane about it before, because Bane just blinks at him. _Bane’s got really long eyelashes,_ John thinks inanely.

“Did you not agree, when we last spoke, that Gotham is in need of one?” Bane asks, rather than giving a straight answer.

John purses his lips. “Yeah, but—” But what? He wracks his brain, trying to put vague thoughts into words. _It’s not your right,_ he wants to say. But then whose is it? And then he’s struck with a flash of realisation.

He starts speaking rapidly, trying to get his words out before they evaporate. “The difference is that I’ve lived here. I actually know what’s wrong with Gotham,” he holds up a hand as Bane starts to interrupt, “and yeah, I know you said you know what Gotham’s like. I believe you. But your knowledge... it’s all up in your head. You don’t– you don’t _really_ know, okay? You haven’t lived here.”

Bane tilts his head but doesn’t seem like he’s getting ready to argue, so John forges ahead:

“You haven’t lived through all the bad shit. And you haven’t experienced any of the good stuff either.” Like the hope that had flared when Batman had first started his crusade, or when then the GPD had gotten its act together and actually started making a difference. And however much those endeavours had ended in failure—

“There shouldn’t be this outside force like the League that just— just sails in and _delivers_ change to Gotham,” John says. “That’s... it’s really fucking patronising. It shouldn’t happen like that.”

“... How should it happen then?”

Bane’s leaning over him, peering down intently, and the mental split John usually uses to separate the Bane that he fantasises about from the real Bane wavers dangerously. He can feel his skin start prickling hotly, and his dick twitches. John’s throat is starting to go dry at how close Bane is, and, Christ, Bane _isn’t looking away._

“It should– it should come from the people of Gotham,” John croaks, conviction pushing his words out past the tightness of his throat. “If Gotham’s going to change, the people who live here should change it. They shouldn’t have you do it for them.”

His voice fades out, but he doesn’t break eye contact with Bane because, if he does, Bane’s going to see exactly how John’s body is reacting to him; he wouldn’t miss it, crazily observant as he is. And, well, John acknowledging his desire to himself is one thing, but having _Bane_ notice? John doesn’t think he’s ready for that.

“I see,” Bane says quietly. And then his gaze flicks down.

John’s stomach seizes up in both terror and anticipation. But if Bane sees anything, he doesn’t react – just returns to peering intently at John. Still nervous, and now embarrassed for panicking over potentially nothing, John looks away.

It’s a poor choice, because he’s instantly greeted with Barsad’s raised eyebrow and canny gaze, and how the _hell_ had he forgotten that Barsad was still sitting there? John’s face goes hot.

Barsad looks back and forth slowly between John and Bane – Bane’s _still_ invading John’s personal space, shit – then holds up his completed device. “It needs to be tested,” he says to Bane in an even tone of voice, like he doesn’t even notice the weird undercurrent between Bane and John.

Bane doesn’t respond immediately. When John glances at him, Bane doesn’t look away. But John can’t read his expression at all.

John’s first line of defense against discomfort has always been sarcasm, but there’s nothing he can think of to say here that can lessen _this_ discomfort. So he chooses the next best option: retreat.

“I should— go. The kids. They shouldn’t be— it’s been a while. They’re probably trying to kill each other,” he says, barely aware of what he’s saying, but well aware that he’s just on this side of babbling.

That gets him another one of Bane’s slow blinks and a disbelieving look from Barsad, but John doesn’t give a shit; he makes his escape without a backward glance.

 

* * *

 

Later (much, much later) John will come to think there’s a bleak kind of irony that he’d spent so much time preparing for the possibility of being jumped while alone, and yet, when things finally do peak with the mercenaries, it happens when he _isn’t_ alone. 

He’s walking with Tim and Jade, ferrying boxes out from the central chamber and into a southern tunnel, stacking them near one of the outflow grilles. John has to stop Tim from opening the boxes to look inside, although the weight and metallic rattle from within gets his brain firing over what could possibly be inside.

There’s been a lot more of this kind of work lately. Things are changing. The drilling work is still going on, reaching the highest parts of the chamber now, but there are fewer men assigned to it. Men are vanishing from the tunnels and reappearing at odd hours. There’s an alert, expectant vibe to the air.

They’re on the return leg of their third trip, and they’re just reaching the midpoint of the tunnel when the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up.

The outsider mercenaries may be brutish, but they’re efficient. There are two of them, and they ambush in near-silence, one clipping Tim with a glancing blow to the side of the head, the other butting Jade across the jaw with a rifle butt as she goes to raise the alarm.

Then they round on John, rifles swinging toward his chest.

Sick fury surging in his blood – they got the jump on him, they touched the kids, they hurt _his_ kids – John backs up, but only enough to get them both in his line of sight. He knows this, he’s been taught how to deal with this– he braces himself and lunges forward. 

The direct attack takes the man closest to him by surprise. John’s able to knock the rifle up and out of his hands before he can pull the trigger, and he gives him a taste of what he’d doled out to Jade by smacking the rifle butt into his face – it’s hard enough to send the man half-spinning away.

John advances on him, wraps the rifle sling once around his fists then hooks it around the man’s throat from behind. Pulls him in close as a human shield against the second merc, who’s already lowering the nose of his rifle out of fear of shooting his friend.

His mistake.

John twists out past his captive; snaps out a front kick to the second man’s stomach, and drives a knee up into his face when the man doubles over. Satisfying crunch of cartilage and a muffled bellow of pain, but there’s no time to relish that because the first man’s flailing and thrashing against John’s impromptu garrotte like a fish on a line; John can barely keep his grip.

There’s movement in the corner of his eye and his panic ramps up when realises Tim and Jade aren’t out cold at all; they’d just been laying still. But Tim’s on his feet now, and Jade’s on hands and knees, crawling determinedly toward the dropped rifle—

“No!” John snaps out, still struggling to keep a hold of the first man. Jade freezes, hand almost on the rifle. John jerks his head desperately at Tim, who’s standing frozen, wide-eyed. “Get him out of here,” he orders Jade.

Jade takes in the situation with one glance – Tim caught between trying to help and fleeing, and the second man already struggling to his feet – and swears loudly. She shoves herself to her feet, grabs Tim roughly by the shoulder and starts to run, half-dragging, half-hauling him toward the central tunnel.

Relief flickers through John when he hears Tim recover – hears Tim screaming for help, screaming, “ _Bane!_ ” in a voice cracked and shrill from panic—

The relief dies when the second merc snaps out, “ _Fuck,_ ” and gets to his feet, yanking a knife from his belt. But rather than head toward John, he starts after the _kids_ —

John lets go of the rifle sling; grabs the first man by the hair and drives his head hard against the tunnel wall. The man slumps – unconscious or dazed, John doesn’t check – but the second man’s still after his kids and John takes off after him, heart in his throat and his mind burning—

—throws himself forward into a tackle, catching the man around the knees and bringing them both down. The merc snarls, thrashing until he’s out from underneath John and up on one knee. And then he’s swinging his knife arm out wide, before bringing it back around in gleaming arc.

John blocks it.

The blade edge bites into the flesh of his forearm, and the pain is sharp-bright. It makes him yell, but he doesn’t jerk away – he’s been taught better. A blade in his arm is a blade that’s _not_ at his throat.

The knife is yanked from his arm and starts coming around for a second time. John shoves in closer, past the arc of the knife’s path. He drives an elbow into the man’s throat, gets him gasping, and forces him backward against the tunnel wall.

Temporarily safe from attack, John grabs the wrist of the hand holding the knife and wrenches it viciously. The man’s suddenly nerveless fingers open, and John twists the knife out of his hand. 

 _Bastard,_ he thinks, mind boiling over with anger. This fucking bastard who’d even fucking _dared_ to try and hurt John’s kids—

The merc tries to lunge forward, use John’s close combat tactic against him—

—John swings his arm up and drives the knife into the man’s throat.

There’s an awful, wet, hacking gurgle. The mercenary’s body jerks – just once – spasmodically. The motion makes the blade sink in deeper and drag against flesh, and there’s blood, oh God there’s blood coming out in thick spurts, and it’s nauseatingly warm over John’s hand.

John’s already letting go, backing away fast, but he’s hit an artery, he _knows_ he has. The blood’s coming out too quickly; it’s spattering his face, soaking into his clothes, and John remembers this, remembers the _pulse-pulse-pulse_ of blood as it had jetted out of Danny Finch’s leg. But this is worse – this is so much worse.

The man staggers forward as John backs away, and his eyes as they stare at John are glassy, the life in them fading fast, and what has John done, what has he—

There’s someone behind him. Shit, _the first man_. John whirls around; stumbles frantically backwards, forgetting his training as he descends into blind panic—

And suddenly _Bane_ is there.

He lunges past John to snatch the knife out of– out of the _body_ as it falls, and then he’s turning, arm extending out in one powerful swing as he drives the blade into the chest of the remaining man.

John flinches when the man drops.

No sound in the tunnel now but the sound of Bane’s steady inhalations, John’s own harsh gasping and the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears.

He’d killed someone.

“Blake.”

He’d killed someone, _oh God_ , _he’d killed someone_. John’s seized by the overwhelming urge to throw up, to run—

“Blake,” Bane says again, and there’s a hand gripping John’s shoulder, pulling him away – away from the bodies, away from what he’d done.

“Are you listening to me?” Bane asks. He pairs the question with a hard shake.

The sickeningly strong copper scent of blood is invading John’s nose, clouding his brain, and John has to struggle to process Bane’s words.

“Listen carefully,” Bane says to him. “You will walk out of this tunnel now. Barsad is guarding the exit. No others shall attempt to harm you. But when you leave here, you must remain calm. Do you understand? The men will be out there. You cannot be seen to break at this juncture.”

Bane’s meaning filters through. The men. The other mercenaries. He can’t let them see his panic; he can’t give them reason to think of him as weak. A numb fog settles over him then, and he nods blankly. Bane stares at him for a moment longer before turning him by the shoulder, and propels him forward.

John walks.

He’s barely aware of Bane at his back, or his hand on his shoulder; he’s barely aware of Barsad as he passes by him and walks into the central chamber—

—and then there’s a clamour of shocked voices, all shouting his name, and someone – John thinks it might be Tim – darts toward him. John almost flinches back, but Barsad’s suddenly in the way, blocking whoever it is from getting closer. John doesn’t turn to look; just focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. And he doesn’t say a word when Bane turns him, not in the direction of the eastern tunnel, but toward the stairs to his quarters.

The stairwell is dark and the sounds of the kids shouting for him are already starting to fade away.

John keeps walking, and lets the shadows swallow him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I know not everyone reading this uses tumblr, I'm linking below two short 100 word drabbles that I've written in this 'verse (the challenge was to write a fic of exactly 100 words - feel free to drop me an ask box message if you have a drabble request! I take anon requests too! :D):
> 
> [Downtime](http://sibilantly.tumblr.com/post/45432274412/downtime-for-anonymous-in-the-family-of-things-john) (Barsad and John, hanging out)  
> [Model Citizens](http://sibilantly.tumblr.com/post/45459939723/model-citizens-for-saeadame-in-the-family-of-things) (prequel, set after John's release from juvie)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the wonderful [smugrobotics](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics) (thank you, bb, for saving me from attempting to scrap everything and starting again <3)

Blake, Bane thinks, looks like a wax doll.

Face ashen, expression blank. As drenched in blood as any soldier Bane has ever seen, but there’s none of the usual combativeness to him; no fire in his eyes or stubbornness in his jaw. He moves where Bane directs him, but only when physically prompted to.

Once in his quarters, Bane hesitates only momentarily before pushing on Blake’s shoulder to make him sit on his bed. Blake seems barely cognisant of his surroundings; the bed possibly triggering another panic attack is the least of Bane’s concerns.

Blake being still for so long looks unnatural, and it stirs an odd compulsion in Bane to say something to pull him from that stupor.

Rather than act on that, he moves away – intending to call for Choi or Zhirov, the most seasoned of his field medics. But then Barsad appears silently at the threshold, a bucket of water in one hand and a bundle tucked underneath his other arm.

Barsad takes Blake’s condition in with one swift glance, and what he sees has him crossing the floor in quick strides. He sets his items down on the table before turning to haul Blake to his feet. He holds Blake at arms’ length for a moment, before abruptly tugging him forward; he crushes Blake to him in a rough embrace, pushing Blake’s face against his shoulder to spare him his pride.

And something in Blake _shatters_ then; he clings to Barsad like a child and begins to cry, shoulders shuddering as he gasps for breath between sobs. It’s a sudden outpouring of grief and horror, overlaid with lingering shock – too intimate, too raw to be observed.

Bane should leave. He he has no place here, watching as Barsad crushes the grief out of Blake. But he doesn’t move.

Eventually, Blake’s weeping subsides into hitching breaths. He lets go of Barsad, going limp again as he drops back onto Bane’s bed. He looks exhausted – hollowed out.

Barsad glances at Bane then, and – for the first time in a long time – Bane finds the look on Barsad’s face to be inscrutable. It’s surprisingly discomforting, but Bane has never shied from discomfort. He holds Barsad’s gaze.

His second-in-command yields first – turns away to retrieve the bucket and cloths.

When Barsad returns to Blake, he begins checking him over dispassionately, touching Blake no more than necessary. But when he reaches Blake’s arm, he tenses unexpectedly, then tears the sleeve of Blake’s shirt with a sharp jerk.

He shakes a cloth out from his bundle of supplies, wets it, and grabs Blake’s arm firmly. Pushing his thumb hard into Blake’s elbow, against the brachial artery, Barsad begins wiping blood away. And Bane sees then that Blake had not come out of his ordeal unscathed; there’s a deep slice in his forearm, still bleeding steadily. “Does he require Choi?”

Barsad hesitates then says, “No. I can take care of it.” He plucks a small medical kit from the pile on the floor beside him, adding, “I need time to prepare, but he needs pressure maintained against the artery still.”

Bane moves forward and grasps Blake by the arm, pressing the pads of his fingers just above Blake’s elbow. Blake doesn’t react at all to his touch.

He stays blank and silent as well when Barsad returns with a needle and surgical thread; barely twitches whilst Barsad sutures the skin of his forearm together in neat stitches. And when Bane lets go after Barsad is done, Blake’s arm drops to his side like a dead weight.

Barsad scrutinises him, then grabs a new cloth and wets it. It isn’t until he touches the cloth to the side of Blake’s face that the man reaches up to grab his wrist.

“I can do it myself,” Blake says quietly.

Barsad relinquishes the cloth to him with a nod. “I will bring you something,” he says. “Stay here.”

Blake nods mutely; starts cleaning his face and hands with jerky movements.

Barsad gives Bane another unfathomable look as he gets to his feet, but this time Bane feels compelled to speak. Blake still seems lost in his fugue, even as he wipes away all traces of his act, so Bane slips immediately into Darija. “Is something troubling you, brother?”

Barsad doesn’t bother equivocating. “You pushed it too far. You pushed _him_ too far.” There’s a shade of protectiveness in his voice, and Bane remembers what had driven Barsad to seek out the League in the first place. He needs to tread carefully.

“I did not order the attack,” Bane says slowly.

“But you ensured there were no guards on either end of the tunnel. You made sure Daggett’s men noticed.”

“Yes.”

Barsad’s eyes go flat. “You did not consult me on this.”

“As I have not when it came to many other things in the past. Why does it bother you now?”

When Barsad gives no reply, Bane adds, “He’s of no use to the League if he is unwilling to kill. And he knows now – as do we – that he is capable of it, if the children are at risk.”

“He’s of no use to the League if he _breaks_ ,” Barsad says immediately. He doesn’t quite snap, but it’s a very near thing. Bane glares at him. Because while he values his second-in-command highly, more than any other man in his army, he won’t tolerate insubordination.

Barsad looks down at once, but Bane can see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

After a moment, Bane says quietly, “Calm yourself, brother. Were you not the first to realise he would be well-suited to the League?” He waits for Barsad’s nod. “Then you know he will not break. Go fetch whatever it is that you would bring him.”

Barsad leaves quickly, and Bane turns back to Blake. Now that he’s removed almost all the traces of blood from his skin, Blake has resumed staring blankly into the middle distance. Bane finds himself at a loss. He’s grown accustomed to Blake’s defiant, recalcitrant nature – even modified his approach toward him as a consequence. It’s jarring, to see Blake so passive.

He’s curiously relieved when Barsad returns, this time bearing clothing and a mug. He sets the clothes down beside Blake then holds the mug out to him. Blake takes it; sniffs it before jerking back sharply.

“I don’t need alcohol,” Blake says. He sounds a little more like himself – if only because he’s arguing with Barsad.

“Drink it or I will make you,” Barsad says, implacable. Blake grimaces at him for a little longer, but eventually obeys. His grimace is even worse after swallowing.

“ _Jesus_ , what did you give me?”

Aguda’s homebrew, most likely. Barsad simply shrugs and says, “Drink more.”

After he’s taken enough sips to satisfy Barsad, Blake starts turning the mug around and around in his hands. He looks lost. Tired.

And Bane realises then there _is_ something he can offer Blake. “Rest here, Blake,” he says.

Both Barsad and Blake turn to look at him, and Bane nods at the bed. “Do not return to the tunnel. Rest here tonight.”

Barsad’s expression shifts minutely – returns to something closer to his usual regard. But Blake is shaking his head.

“I can’t,” he says. He sips from the mug again. “I need to— I should go see the kids, they’re freaked out, you saw them, they probably think they’re going to get—”

“They are upset because they are concerned for you,” Bane interrupts. “You can do no more for them than what you’ve already done.”

And Blake will likely do more harm than good, Bane thinks, if he returns to the eastern tunnel tonight. But he refrains from saying it. They have an agreement, and the children are Blake’s domain.

“They probably think you’ve brought me up here so you can execute me in the morning or something,” Blake says. There’s wryness creeping into his tone.

“Barsad will tell them otherwise.”

That wins a snort from Blake. “That’d be something to see.” He turns to Barsad. “How’re you going to stop them from running away from you?” His words are beginning to slur; Aguda’s rotgut must be working its way through his blood.

“They cannot outrun me forever,” Barsad deadpans. His voice turns calmly insistent when he says, “Take Bane’s offer and sleep here.”

After a brief hesitation, Blake nods.

Barsad peers at him intently for a moment, before rising to his feet and saying, “This too shall pass, _kija-chaa._ ”

Bane looks up sharply upon hearing the honorific, but Barsad avoids his eyes as he departs.

In his absence, a suffocating silence descends.

Bane breaks it by saying, “You should change. Barsad brought you clothing.” He gestures toward the neat pile. Blake looks down at it then back at Bane in apprehension.

It brings to mind Barsad’s quiet declaration when Blake’s progress had appeared to deteriorate inexplicably; _“You make him nervous,”_ Barsad had said. At the time, Bane had thought it due to mere weakness. But he recalls now how Blake had reacted, when he’d leaned over him the other day – with flushed skin and dilated pupils. He thinks back on all their interactions from recent memory; realises Blake’s reactions have been consistent for more than a month now.

Bane smiles slowly.

He’s entertained the notion of taking Blake to bed before – whenever Blake argued with him, heedless of the boundaries he was overstepping. Or whenever he sprawled out on the ground after sparring, cheeks pink and skin slick from exertion. It had been all too easy to imagine him reckless and wild – or sweat-damp and languid – for another reason. But the thoughts had always been idle, easily dismissed.

Bane is reconsidering them now; fleeting thoughts solidifying into something more substantial. He glances at Blake again.

The man appears to have taken advantage of Bane’s preoccupation to strip off his soiled clothing, and dress himself in the clothes Barsad had brought him: military fatigues and a short sleeved shirt. They clearly don’t belong to Blake; Bane thinks they’re most likely Barsad’s – he and Blake are of a height.

Dressed as he is, blood still staining the skin at his hairline, Blake resembles nothing more closely than a soldier of the League. It pleases Bane to see it. However, Blake’s vacant expression and bowed head spoils the illusion. The urge to shake him from his trance seizes Bane again, and he says evenly:

“He would have murdered you. Stepped over your corpse without a thought, and possibly raped the girl.”

It’s the right choice of words. Awareness flickers across Blake’s face when he says: “That doesn’t make it okay.”

Bane shakes his head. “Deontological ethics,” he says, _sotto voce_ , but Blake hears him. His whole body jerks, the first dynamic movement he’s made since Bane had brought him to his quarters.

“What the _fuck,_ ” he hisses, looking up finally. Bane is satisfied with the wildness he sees in Blake’s eyes – that’s better.

“You think that’s what I’m upset about?” Blake demands. “You think I’m freaking out because I broke some fucking abstract moral code?” He very nearly spits the words. Then he puts a hand to his head, saying, “I mean— I did, but that’s— it’s not—” He makes a noise of frustration; Bane has heard him make it often as he struggles with his words.

At last, Blake says, “I killed him. _I killed him_. Yeah, he was a piece of shit, and yeah, he was going to kill me, but— he was a person. He was a person, and I killed him.”

Bane stays silent as Blake continues in that circular refrain, voice breaking. He has a distant understanding of what Blake means, but—

“Did he have any family?” Blake asks abruptly.

Bane stares, momentarily uncertain if he’d heard Blake correctly. He _had_ , he realises, and the realisation fills him with disbelief.

What possible reserve of compassion could Blake be drawing from, that he can feel _pity_ for the family of a man who’d come close to murdering him? How had he even developed the capacity for it, with the broken childhood he’d had?

Blake deserved – _deserves_ – better than the lot he’s been given, Bane thinks suddenly. He deserved better than being forced to fend against Daggett’s mercenaries alone.

He deserves better than to be used as a pawn in the League’s war against Gotham.

Bane feels the sting of shame then, harsh and sharp. He doesn’t feel it often, and he quashes it ruthlessly, after a moment. But an echo remains. It sets him on edge, makes him restless. He has to clench his hand repeatedly to relieve it.

Blake appears to be waiting for an answer still. Bane has no idea if the man had had family; he’d been one of Daggett’s vermin, and Bane hadn’t cared to learn anything of him. But he can offer Blake the meagre comfort of a lie: “No.”

If Blake senses the lie, he gives no sign. He nods then looks about uncertainly.

Suddenly needing Blake out of his sight – or at least out of the way – Bane nods toward the bed. “Rest,” he says shortly. “Sleep, if you are able.”

Blake looks slightly alarmed. “I can’t— I shouldn’t take your bed. It’s your bed. I can—” Blake looks around quickly, “I can take that chair. Or I could just go back to—”

Of all the times to return to being argumentative, Blake has to choose now. “I do not sleep often,” Bane says, waving off the offer.

Blake nods but doesn’t lay down. Instead, he keeps turning the empty mug in his hands. Bane stares at him narrowly. Unwilling to leave Blake to his own devices in his quarters, but with restlessness growing, Bane reaches into his pocket and draws out a length of string. Starts twisting and looping it into the first stages of a surgeon’s knot—

“How can you do it?” Blake asks, seemingly apropos of nothing. “You do it so easily. How do you get over it?” It is obvious what ‘it’ is.

Bane considers the questions carefully. He doubts Blake will be comforted by the statement ‘I first killed a man when I was ten – it comes easily to me’. He settles on saying, “There is no answer I can give that would likely satisfy. Killing a man— it is what it is. You do not just ‘get over it’. It is like fire, and you must go through it, else you will be consumed by it.”

“That’s not really helpful,” Blake mutters, and this time he does throw himself back onto the bed.

“It was not intended to be,” Bane replies, eyeing the elegantly inelegant sprawl of his limbs. “None can help you through this but yourself.”

Blake takes that in. He frowns at the ceiling and his voice sounds troubled as he says, “When I stabbed him... it was so quick. It happened so easily. It shouldn’t be easy.”

“No, it should not.” And Bane truly agrees with Blake there. In a just world, it would not be easy, or necessary. But they do not live in a just world.

Blake doesn’t speak again, so Bane doesn’t either. He returns to his knots. Eventually, Blake’s breathing slows – lengthens and evens out as he drops soundlessly into sleep.

Bane stays awake for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

When John blinks into waking, he has a moment of sheer panic. He’s staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling, he can't hear the kids, he's not in his cot—

—and then the memory of yesterday comes crashing back.

He's in Bane's bed. Bane had brought him here. After John had— after he’d—

John puts a hand over his eyes and starts breathing deeply, willing his heartbeat to slow down. It takes over a minute before he no longer feels like retching or clawing at his skin, but he’s able to take his hand away eventually.

He props himself up on his elbows, then jumps in surprise.

Because Bane is still sitting on the cargo containers at the end of the bed, illuminated by a small lantern beside him. He’s sitting in almost the exact same position he'd been in when John had fallen asleep. If it weren't for the fact that Bane was clutching a sheaf of papers and reading, rather than knotting string, John would've been convinced Bane hadn’t moved all night.

"Uh— hey," he says, when Bane doesn't look up.

Bane slants his gaze toward John first, then turns his head. It ought to look creepy – John _had_ thought it was creepy, the first few times he’d seen Bane do it – but he’s gotten used to it over the months.

They stare at one another for a moment before Bane says, “Are you—”

“Feeling better now?” John finishes for him. Bane blinks, and John smiles mirthlessly. “That’s the, uh, third time you’ve said that to me. I think it’s starting to become a trend.”

Bane gives him a long considering look upon hearing at that. John stares back. And then he becomes _acutely_ aware of the fact he’s in Bane’s bed; a flush starts crawling steadily up his neck.

God, what is _wrong_ with him? He’d killed a man yesterday, and being in Bane’s bed ranks as a _concern_ for him? Ashamed, John stares down at his lap until a noise from the entrance draws his attention.

He’s half-expecting it to be Barsad, but no— it’s a tall, copper-skinned man, armed with the hugest machete John’s ever laid eyes on (and he's seen many over the months).

Bane makes an imperious gesture, and the man says something in quick, rapid-fire syllables. Whatever he says, it makes Bane raise an eyebrow and tilt his head in John's direction.

The man turns to John and nods briskly. “There is a boy,” he says in careful, heavily accented English. “He wishes to see you. He is refusing to leave.”

What? John almost asks who, but changes his mind. He doubts the guard will know who it is by name.

He glances out past the balcony. The tunnels are still mostly dark – only the safety lanterns are providing any illumination – and there’s only the ever-present sound of rushing water. So whoever it is that’s waiting for him has either gotten up incredibly early – or they haven't gone to sleep at all.

"Send them—" John starts to say. Then he stops and looks at Bane, abashed. These are Bane's quarters, and Bane has been generous enough already, bringing John here, and granting him relative privacy for his breakdown. "Is it okay if they come up here? Or— I can go down."

Bane makes a dismissive gesture and returns to his reading. "Let the child come up," he says to the guard.

The man gives another quick, respectful nod, then steps back and vanishes from view. There’s a short pause. John can hear voices murmuring, followed by the pounding of sneakered feet on the stairs—

—then _Tim_ bursts onto the balcony. John lets out a surprised breath; he's intensely, _ridiculously_ glad to see Tim, all of a sudden. Tim's okay. The kids are okay. The thought fills him with relief so strong that he feels giddy.

But the relief is tempered by the fact there are dark shadows beneath Tim’s eyes – strong indicators of a sleepless night. And Tim’s expression, already anxious, goes even more anxious when he spots Bane—

“Hey,” John says, to divert his attention. Tim’s gaze swings over to him – takes in the way he’s sitting upright, apparently no worse for wear – and his expression clears instantly.

"You're okay!" Tim blurts, and his tone makes it seem more like he’s saying _'you're alive!'_.

John's mouth twitches into a small smile. "For a given value of okay," he says.

He wants to kick himself the second he says it, because Tim immediately looks stricken. For all he has a smart mouth, Tim's a worrier, a brooder. He’d most likely stayed up all night, agonising over how things could've gone differently– maybe even blaming himself for freezing up, and the thought of Tim blaming himself is just _so_ wrong—

"Hey— hey, no," John says, voice turning soothing instinctively. He holds an arm out to Tim – both an invitation and a request for a hug. Whether he’s trying to comfort himself or Tim, John isn’t really sure.

Tim hurtles over to him; throws his arms around John without reserve. John wraps him up in a hug just as tight.

“There was nothing you could have done to change what happened,” John says into his hair.

Tim makes a noise of disagreement. “I screwed up—”

What? “You didn’t screw up. How could you screw up?”

“Roy said he was sure those guys were going to try something. We’ve all been watching them for you. I was supposed to— to call everyone, but I didn’t. I just froze, I screwed up. You had to tell Jade to get me out of there.” Tim’s voice drops lower, heavy with guilt, as he says, “We left you alone.”

“I would’ve told you guys to run anyway. They had weapons. Guns. I’ve been taught how to deal with that. You haven’t. You really think I’d want you guys trapped in there when all that shit was going down?”

“But—”

John doesn’t let him finish. “And you did great. You didn’t hesitate when Jade grabbed you—” and he’s going to have to find Jade and hug her too, for responding so promptly to his order. He goes to continue then hesitates, glancing over at Bane. But Bane has moved away; he’s politely not looking at them, creating the illusion of privacy.

John lowers his voice a little anyway. “And that was some quick thinking, calling for Bane, instead of the other kids. I’m pretty sure you saved my life with that. So you didn’t screw up. There was nothing more you could’ve done. Okay?”

Tim nods against his shoulder. John rubs his back comfortingly; almost laughs when Tim wriggles, a little indignant at being soothed. Then John says, deliberately brisk, “How’s everyone else?”

“We’re okay. Just— worried about you mainly,” Tim says, pulling back. He’s trying to school his face back into its usual nonchalance, and John lets him. He knows how necessary a mask can be, at times.

Tim peers at him closely. “How are _you_?”

John pats him on the shoulder. “I’m not totally okay. But I will be,” he says honestly.

Tim nods, frowning to himself. Then, to John’s complete astonishment, he throws his arms around John again. There’s no ambiguity this time – this hug is aimed wholly at comforting John. John bows his head over Tim’s, and returns the hug.

And he realises something: for all that killing that man has polluted him – changed him irrevocably – he can't say he wouldn't do it again, to ensure the kids' safety.

The thought makes him go a little cold. He hugs Tim to him even tighter.

When he glances up a second time, Bane is watching him, and the expression in his eyes is dark and knowing.

 

* * *

 

The only upside – if that word can really be applied to a situation like this – is that the mercs leave John and the kids alone entirely now. They stick to themselves, seemingly aware that support will only come from each other, and the looks that they give John are wary, tempered with unease.

In contrast, Bane's men are casual, almost cavalier, about the whole thing. They act like they believe it will only be the first of John's kills, and they welcome him even further. They cheerfully call for him to come and sit with them, not just greeting him as he passes. But John doesn't want to have this in common with them. He makes weak excuses to avoid joining them, and, when they persist, he starts spending more time in the kids' tunnel.

He's almost morbidly preoccupied with death. He can’t bring himself to re-imagine everything, but he replays the memory of the man’s eyes turning blank and glassy, over and over. He thinks about his parents’ deaths – _really_ thinks about them – for the first time in years. And when he next speaks to Barsad, he finds himself circling the topic of whether Barsad has killed before.

"Of course," Barsad says neutrally, when John finally steels himself to ask. His brief glance suggests he’ll think John is hopelessly foolish if John says he thought otherwise.

"More than once?"

"Yes."

"Does it get easier?"

"Not particularly."

It's not the response John's expecting. He stares at Barsad, stunned and a little sick. "Then... why do it? If it doesn't get easier, how could you bring yourself to do it again?"

Barsad sits back against the wall. They’re in the central chamber and he gazes upward, at the construction workers who’ve almost reached the ceiling. “Perhaps it _is_ easier for me,” he says; there’s a philosophical tone to his voice. “Most of my kills have been at a distance.”

“You’re a sniper.” John says. He isn’t really seeking confirmation, but Barsad nods nonetheless. John chews on that for a while then says, “Most of your kills have been from a distance... but not all?”

Barsad understands the real question. “It is no easy thing, taking a person’s life. Not a thing to be taken lightly. I take no pleasure in it. I do not kill needlessly. But I _am_ a soldier, in a way. I have a cause that I believe in, and it is one that I will kill for. And one that I would die for.”

John frowns. He almost asks Barsad why he’d killed for the first time... then thinks better of it. He wouldn’t want to be grilled on why he’d killed that mercenary; he can’t see Barsad being much different. And what Barsad told him had been no more helpful than what Bane had said, although it had been a little more revealing. He sighs.

“This too shall pass, huh?” John says, recollecting Barsad’s words from the other night.

Barsad nods solemnly.

 

* * *

 

It does pass. The memory starts receding from the forefront of his thoughts.

Each time John realises he’s gone a little longer without thinking of how he’d killed someone, he’s immediately hit with a crushing wall of guilt. But even the guilt recedes, transmuting from a constant, ragged pain to a dull ache that only throbs when he turns his mind to the memory.

He has less and less time to turn his mind to it. As if sensing he needs the distraction, the kids come to him even more often. They sit with him – sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups – and just _talk_. They complain about how one of the other kids is pissing them off; muse on what they want to get in the next supply run; tell him about this song running through their head that they can’t remember the name of. John doesn’t always have much to say in response, but he appreciates the gesture, nevertheless.

And the kids aren’t the only front on which the distraction campaign is happening. Bane’s men step up their efforts to get him to join them too. No longer content with calling out invites when he passes, one of them will usually get up, sling a companionable arm around his shoulder – too fast for John to make his escape – and pull him toward their circle.

The third time it happens, John gives up on resisting. He usually stays quiet, speaking only when one of the men asks him a direct question. The men seem happy to let him, passing around a bottle of Aguda’s moonshine (where the hell is he keeping his makeshift still? John’s going to have to make sure the kids don’t try sneaking some, assuming they haven’t found it already) and cheerfully giving one another shit.

However, the fifth time he gets drawn in – by Aguda, this time – he’s only been sitting for a few minutes when he looks around at the assembled men and says, “Where’s Barsad?”

It’s Kaleem who answers. “Barsad does not join us, unless Bane joins us first.”

Bane does? John’s never seen him here. Hasn’t seen him much at all, since Barsad put a hold on training until John’s arm healed up. But as for Barsad— “Why doesn’t he join you without Bane?”

“Because he’s a bâtard,” Royer offers immediately, grinning. He seems to hold no grudge against John for beating him, but John still scowls at him. He’ll accept Royer and Daniel are doing— whatever it is they’re doing, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever _like_ Royer.

“Why do you keep calling him that?” John grumbles.

“Because he is one.”

John scowls harder. When Kaleem passes him the flask, he takes it and knocks back a mouthful. It burns going down, but it also leaves a pleasant warmth in the pit of his stomach.

“Barsad,” Aguda begins, his deep voice turned deeper from the alcohol, “has always held himself apart. He was Bane’s man from the start, even when Ra’s—”

“No,” Kaleem interrupts. “He held himself apart because everyone else in the League stayed away from him.”

John’s eyebrows go up. “Why?”

Huge machete man – who’d introduced himself as Moreno – says, “He scared the other acolytes, when he first arrived. He even scared some of the temple masters.” Judging by Moreno’s alarmed expression afterwards, that last part had slipped out inadvertently; he’s been taking larger pulls from the flask than everyone else, whenever it was his turn.

“Let me guess,” Royer says, when John opens his mouth. “You are going to ask: ‘why?’”

John shuts his mouth with a snap, and Royer smirks. Kaleem laughs and rubs John’s head. “So many questions, kija-jun. Always why why why.”

Aguda elbows him. “Barsad’s kija-jun, not yours.”

“Barsad calls him _kija-chaa_ ,” Moreno informs the group at large, his accent turning thicker as his voice lengthens out into a drawl. “I have heard him.”

That pronouncement is met with resounding silence. Confused, John looks around at the circle of stunned faces. He starts to ask: _what’s the big deal? What does it mean?—_ but the quality of the silence changes – becomes tense. Everyone’s suddenly displaying an intense interest in the floor.

John looks over his shoulder, and sees Barsad standing behind him. On the surface, Barsad’s expression is as neutral as ever. But John’s spent months cataloguing Barsad’s micro-expressions, and he can see tension in the corners of his eyes and the slightly sour twist to his mouth – Barsad’s irritated about something.

Had he heard what the men were saying? John blinks up at him.

“Bane wishes to speak with you,” Barsad says finally.

John’s brow furrows, even as his mouth dries a little. “About what?”

Barsad shrugs. “Ask him yourself,” he says curtly. He turns away without waiting for John. When John catches up with him, rather than leading him up, Barsad simply jerks his head at the stairs then stalks off.

John stares. “What crawled up your ass and died?” he calls after him, but Barsad’s stride doesn’t falter. John’s tempted to follow, grill him further, but Bane’s apparently waiting. He turns back to the stairs and heads up.

He nods at the guard at the threshold, but hesitates just inside Bane’s quarters, suddenly uncertain. Barsad’s weird behaviour has put him on edge.

Bane has his back to him, but he tilts his head at the sound of John’s shuffling feet then glances over his shoulder. He half-turns and holds out a sheaf of papers to John. They look like the papers he’d been reading the other morning.

“Read this and tell me what you make if it,” Bane says. He makes no move to step closer, and John’s forced to walk over. He takes the papers, but, before he can pull his arm back, Bane’s hand shoots forward and grabs him by the wrist.

John’s heartbeat kicks up, trip-hammering in his chest, and the surge of blood makes his limbs tingle. God, Bane can probably feel his pulse at his wrist. But Bane gives no indication that he’s noticed. He just turns John’s arm this way and that – examining the stitches.

“It’s healing well,” he says.

“I—” John has to swallow before he can reply properly, “It is. Barsad said he’ll probably take the stitches out next week.”

“Hmm,” is apparently all Bane has to say in response. He lets go of John’s arm and moves to sit down on his bed. “I would like your opinion on that,” he says, nodding at the papers.

John stops staring at him and looks down at the papers. It’s a neatly typed document, written in first person. He starts to skim it. It— has Bane given him a _story_ to read?

A few lines later, he realises, no, Bane hasn’t. He slows down in reading. It’s a speech. And a confession. By the end, John can even tell who wrote it.

But he still finds himself saying, “What is this?”

Bane takes a few hissing breaths before he replies, “You know what it is.”

John does. His disgust wars with cynical resignation as he rereads the speech, this time out loud: “‘I praised the mad man who tried to murder my own child but I can no longer live with my lie. It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth and— _what the fuck?_ ” he snarls, disgust finally winning out.

Bane tilts his head, watching him carefully.

And John is abruptly, _incandescently_ angry. Part of him wonders at it, asking himself why he’s so upset; it’s not like he should’ve expected anything better.

But it doesn’t take him long to come up with an answer: because Gordon was supposed to be one of the good ones. He is – _was_ , John corrects himself ruthlessly – Batman’s ally, and he was _supposed_ to be better—

The second he thinks it, he feels stupidly naive. There are no good ones. John’s never met a person in authority who _hasn’t_ been corrupt, one way or another. It’s all just degrees of corruption, and Gordon’s been commissioner for almost a decade – there’s that fucking tired old line about absolute power, isn’t there?

 _Saving Gordon’s life was pointless after all,_ he thinks bitterly.

“Why did you show me this?” John demands, rounding on Bane. He needs an outlet for his disappointment and his anger, and Bane’s the only one around.

“I wanted your opinion,” Bane repeats evenly.

“My _opinion?_ My opinion is that this is— this is just— _fuck._ ” John whirls around. He almost throws the papers, but has enough presence of mind to slap them down on Bane’s table instead. He starts pacing. “It’s just such _bullshit_. It’s so— I’m so fucking sick of hoping, and being let down, and— you know, I don’t know why I expected better of Gordon. But I really did.”

“You expected better because you and the people of Gotham deserve better,” Bane supplies. There’s a note of— something in his voice.

John stalks over to Bane’s jumble of cargo containers and sits down heavily. “Where’d you get that?” He asks, jerking his chin toward the papers.

“From Commissioner Gordon, that first night you were brought down.”

Right. The men had searched Gordon, same as they had John. John scrubs a hand over his face roughly. He can feel a headache coming on. But his brain circles back on that weird note in Bane’s voice. He knows what that is. Bane’s trying to play him for some reason.

“Tell me why you showed me the speech,” John says shortly, hand still over his eyes. “Tell me the _real_ reason. You’re angling for something – tell me what it is.” He takes his hand away in time to catch the tail end of Bane’s narrow eyed, thoughtful look.

Bane doesn’t respond immediately. Just _looks_ John, taking steady, measured breaths. Finally, he says, “You agreed that we would discuss your place, as well as the place of the children, when the revolution began.”

“Yeah. And it hasn’t started yet. So?”

Slowly, Bane says, “I require some of the children now. For tasks more involved than what they are doing currently.”

“Define ‘involved’,” John says, voice equally slow.

“I need them to accompany my men to various locations around the city.”

“Why?”

“As guides, partly. They’re more familiar with this city’s shortcuts than my men. But I need them mainly as runners – messengers. Delivering messages for my men between sites.”

“There’re these things called cell phones, you should look into them–”

“There is such a thing as surveillance technology,” Bane counters mildly.

“So use your own men. I don’t want my kids getting picked up by the cops for being in places they’re not supposed to be.”

“All my men are engaged in other tasks. I cannot spare them. And the children will not be breaking into restricted areas.”

“You showed me that speech because you didn’t think I’d say yes off the bat,” John says flatly. “You wanted to piss me off about Gordon and Gotham, so I’d get all— I don’t know, righteous or some shit, and hand the kids over to you. So wherever you want them going, it’s obviously not as kosher as you’re making it out to be.”

Bane huffs, and the sound is distorted by the mask. But after a moment, he shifts along the bed, closer to John, and drums his fingers against the bed frame. “There will be no risk to them,” he says again. “Ask the children if they will do it. The eldest ones, at least. They will be paid extra, if they take on the added responsibility.”

Part of John wants to refuse outright. Bane had tried to play him, and John had almost been taken in; the irritation seethes beneath his skin. But he’d be patronising the kids hopelessly if he did, and it’d be reactionary of him, besides. So he says curtly, “Fine.”

Bane nods, seemingly satisfied, but John isn’t. “Don’t ever fucking try that again,” he says, voice low. Bane flicks his eyes up to meet John’s. But he doesn’t say anything, so John continues, “Don’t ever try to manipulate me into doing what you want again. If you want something from me, ask me straight out.”

The look in Bane’s eyes changes with mercurial quickness – becomes intent, and darkly amused. “Really,” he says slowly, like he’s savouring the word. And John’s not over being pissed, but he can’t control the thrill that shoots down his spine at the sound of Bane’s voice.

Bane’s gaze travels downward, crawls across John’s body, and John’s breath lodges in his throat. Bane can’t _seriously_ be—

“Tell me, Blake,” Bane says. “If I were to touch you now, what would you do?” John swallows. He knows Bane doesn’t mean anything as innocent as a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he says automatically. Then, because Bane deserves more thought and honesty in his reply than that he says, “Freeze up, maybe? Accept it, I guess.” _You fucking liar,_ part of him thinks, but he’s not. Not completely. He really doesn’t know how he’d respond if Bane touched him.

“Very well,” Bane nods. He leans back with a creak of leather. “Then I will not touch you.”

Thrown, John pulls back a little. Surprise makes him crude when he blurts, “So— you _don’t_ want to fuck me?”

That gets him an inscrutable look from Bane. “Only if you desired it,” he says.

John looks down; shakes his head slightly in disbelief. Bane had said it so _evenly_ , like he can just switch his attraction on and off. _Maybe he can,_ John thinks wildly. _Maybe he’s a robot._

Bane doesn’t say anything else, and the silence yawns between them. John rushes to fill it, before his discomfort overrides his vocal cords completely. He keeps his gaze trained on the floor when he confesses, “It’s not that I don’t want— I just... I have... issues.”

Bane knows that. _Of course_ he knows that; John’s melted down in front of him more than once. John waves a hand vaguely anyway, trying to encompass everything that had happened to him in between being released from juvie and being placed in St. Swithin’s.

He risks a glance at Bane, and sees him watching him. Most of the work lights have been switched off, and the remaining light casts shadows across Bane’s face, but John’s close enough to see his eyes – dark, still and waiting. Not expectant, though. No expectation or demand in Bane’s eyes at all, and that gets to John. Pulls the words out of him despite his indecision.

“What if I touched you?” John asks quietly. He’s barely audible when he adds, “I want to.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Discussion of the long-term psychological effects of underage prostitution

John holds his breath as Bane cocks his head. He bites back the _no, forget I said that,_ that slips to his lips, unbidden, and keeps his gaze trained steadily on Bane.

But Bane doesn’t say a word.

He’s silent for so long that John starts to think maybe Bane hadn’t heard him. He cringes, heart sinking and stomach shrivelling, because he doesn’t think he can summon up the courage to say it a second time.

And then Bane moves; straightens up slightly, spreads his legs spread wider, and _God_ , John wants. He wants so badly he’s nearly dizzy from it. There’s desire - actual, honest-to-God _desire_ \- running through him and it makes his pulse throb and his fingers tingle. A reckless, wild feeling unfurls in his chest, and John thinks he could get lost in it, if he lets himself.

The thought is slightly terrifying - for a number of reasons.

But Bane doesn’t tell John to come to him, or try to coax him forward. He just... sits there. Watching and waiting - wholly undemanding. And John understands then the message that Bane is trying to convey: John can have this - have _Bane_ \- if he wants. And he can walk away if he doesn’t.

It stuns him; leaves him feeling embarrassingly, _pathetically_ grateful. But it pushes aside the fear too. John’s heart starts thumping harder in his chest, from more than just lust now. He’s never associated choice or freedom with sex before. He wants to, though.

His first step forward is small - barely more than a shuffle. His second step is larger, a little easier. The ones after that come even easier.

John keeps going, keeps moving until he’s standing right in front of Bane, bracketed by his spread thighs. Bane meets his eyes again. He’s so tall that, even seated on the bed, he only needs to tilt his head back slightly. It’s honestly kind of ridiculous how tall Bane is, John thinks, half-smiling.

The corners of Bane’s eyes crinkle, as if the sight of John smiling pleases him. Unthinking, John raises a hand and brushes his fingertip against the corner of Bane’s eye. There’s no sudden tingle, or further shock of desire from the contact. But John is inordinately delighted all the same. The skin beneath his fingers is warm and thin, almost fragile _—_

Bane blinks. There’s nothing in his voice other than amusement when he says, “Not precisely the touch I was expecting.”

John’s smile widens. He moves his hand; sweeps his fingertips along Bane’s eyelashes, traces the line of his cheekbone and Bane’s amusement grows. Encouraged, John trails his fingers down. But he stops right at the edge of the mask, thoughtful. Bane’s been more than careful with him, the least John can do is respond in kind.

“Not the mask?” He asks quietly.

“Not the mask,” Bane agrees, serious and calm.

John nods. He pulls his hand away and settles it against the enormous, solid curve of Bane’s shoulder instead. His thumb grazes a strap on Bane’s vest, and John pulls back a little; examines the seemingly complicated set of straps and buckles holding it together. He hooks a finger underneath the strap. “Can you take this off?”

Bane moves immediately, deftly tugging the fastenings loose. John grins; almost laughs. He’s paradoxically pleased that Bane isn’t as patient as he’s making himself out to be, even though he’s grateful for his restraint.

However, any thought of laughter dies away the instant Bane strips his vest off, as he bares powerful shoulders, thick muscle and tanned skin. John’s mouth goes dry, just like it had that first time he’d looked at Bane - _really_ looked at him. But there’s no sick sense of shame, no ugly humiliation now. There’s just desire, warm and low in his belly, and the overwhelming urge to touch.

So John does, taking full advantage of the fact Bane is apparently letting him set the pace. He presses his hands to Bane’s chest firmly, and embarks on a slow, careful exploration of all the skin Bane’s bared to him.

He runs his hands up over Bane’s shoulders then back along his shoulder blades; slides his palms along the solid flanks of Bane’s torso, intent and greedy, like he’s been starved for touch his entire life. And, in a way, he supposes he has. He’s never been allowed this before - to take his time and just... _touch_ without the specific intention of bringing someone else off. It’s almost unbelievable - humbling and reassuring and daunting, all at once.

The skin of Bane’s chest and stomach isn’t smooth. It’s covered in small scars - little nicks and welts, long-since healed. But the scars on Bane’s front can’t compare to the scarring on his back. And, all throughout his careful exploration, John’s careful to avoid touching the jagged scar running along Bane’s spine. Not out of disgust; John’s no stranger to scars. But the same awareness that stopped him from touching Bane’s mask makes him avoid the scar. He wonders if Bane notices.

He’s so focused on the feel of Bane’s skin, on the tension and flexion of powerful muscle beneath, he doesn’t even notice he’s practically crawled into Bane’s lap. Not until Bane shifts backward, moving further along the bed to give him room, and John loses his balance. Catches himself on Bane’s shoulders, but not before his legs spread wide and his hips meet Bane’s.

The press of Bane’s cock - thick and undeniably hard against his own - sends a sweet-hot spike of arousal up John’s spine, drags a groan out of him.

And then he freezes.

John wills himself to move, to keep going. He tries to focus on the feel of Bane against him, and _not_ on the sense memories lurking beneath his skin, toxic and choking. _This isn’t like that,_ he tries to tell himself. _Bane is not those men. You’re not doing anything you don’t want to._

It’s a losing battle. His head knows, but his body doesn’t. And it’s body memory - sensation and feeling - that’s dragging his mind out of the present and into the past. This _feels_ cheap. Cheap, and dirty, and _nasty_ , like sex always is, and John’s clearly an idiot for thinking he could ever see it differently.

But _God_ — his body is still lit up with desire, he _still_ wants Bane. John’s throat goes tight. What’s wrong with him, that he wants to pollute this— this rapport he’s established with Bane with sex? Why can’t companionship or friendship be enough, why—

“Blake,” Bane says. He brings his hand up, hovering just over John’s shoulder, but not touching him. Frustrated, still wavering between memory and reality, John doesn’t look up.

“John,” Bane tries again. “There is no need for you to do this now. I don’t need you to do anything.” John pointedly looks down at Bane’s lap, at the erection tenting his pants.

Bane lets out a huff - an almost-laugh. “There is a difference between need and want.”

John flushes a little. He _knows_ that, it’s just— he shakes his head and scrubs at his face with one hand. “How is it even possible to want something and not want it just as much?”

“It happens to us all.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.”

John lets out a long breath and pushes himself off Bane’s lap. But he drops down to sit on the bed instead of backing away. “I want. I want to—” Jesus, he can’t even say it. He lapses into silence for a while before saying finally, “I don’t know if I can do this. And I’m tired of it. I’m so fucking tired of all the _crap_ in my head getting in the way. I just. I just want to _not_ think about it, or remember it, for once.”

He doesn’t look at Bane, but he can hear him shifting on the bed. Then Bane leans a fraction closer. He’s close enough that John can feel soft, even breaths puffing against his neck. The sensation sends a fragile shiver of arousal skittering across his skin; he inches slightly closer back into the real world.

“Then perhaps I can show you that not all touches need to be avoided,” Bane murmurs into his ear.

John swallows, eyes going wide. Can he— does he _really_ trust Bane enough to let him do that?

He _does,_ , he realises after a beat. John knows how to recognise the dangerous ones, the sick ones. And while Bane _is_ dangerous, he’s not dangerous like that. He raises his eyes to Bane’s. Bane gazes back steadily.

_You can have this if you want,_ John reminds himself. _And you can walk away if you don’t._

He nods haltingly.

Bane smiles. He reaches out slowly but purposefully, and his hand settles on John’s shoulder with a firm grip. It’s a deliberate imitation of what John had done earlier, and John snorts out a weak laugh. “Not quite the touch I was expecting,” he says, mouth turning up in a crooked grin.

Bane raises an eyebrow then brushes his hand across to the middle of John’s chest. Rests his palm right over John’s heart, like he’s monitoring his heart beat. John’s heart starts thudding a little faster. Bane could shove him down now, pin him to the bed—

“Remember that I will not hurt you,” Bane murmurs. He moves his hand lower, never lifting it off John’s body. It’s just like the feel of Bane’s breath against his neck; the physicality of it becomes an anchor, tethering John’s mind to the present. John focuses on the sensations - the heavy weight of Bane’s hand; the drag of his shirt against his skin, as Bane skims his hand downward - and _not_ on the memories slinking about in his head.

It feels a little bit like Bane is desensitising John to his touch all over again. Except he isn’t, because there’s no way in hell John could ever be desensitised to _this_. But he’s not freaking out. He’s not freaking out, and he’s still achingly hard. Bane’s hand rests low on his belly, rubbing in slow, patient circles. John’s torn between the urge to stay still and to thrust his hips upward. Bane’s hand is so, _so_ close, and if John moves just a bit—

Bane glances at John, eyes assessing. John looks back at him, eyes wide, but he keeps his gaze as steady as he can manage. After a few breathless seconds, he leans back onto his elbows, slow and deliberate. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he can’t quite even out the jerkiness of his movements. But he tries to convey, without words, that he’s not going to descend into a panic attack if Bane moves his hand lower.

The message gets through. Bane cups him without preamble. He rubs the heel of his hand firmly against the head of John’s cock, through two layers of cloth, and _oh fuck_ , that’s good—

“God,” John chokes out. He jerks his hips up helplessly into the welcome pressure of Bane’s hand. It’s a little rough, the drag of his underwear against sensitised flesh, but it still feels fucking amazing. John’s head drops back and he sinks further into the bed.

Bane makes a pleased sound and leans closer, bracing his other hand by John’s hip. He’s half-looming over John as he rubs in smooth circles, and that should be _terrifying_. Bane could hold him down from this position; trap his legs, bear down on him - anything. But he doesn’t.

And John doesn’t fail to notice that Bane has left the space on John’s right clear. If he wants to, John can slide straight off the bed and run for the door, probably faster than Bane can move to catch him. It’s another small reassurance that he only has to be here if he wants to, that Bane’s _not_ going to hurt him.

His last sliver of uncertainty burns away. The arousal pooled low in John’s belly tightens. He scrambles back on the bed until he can brace his feet on the mattress; spreads his legs and arches into Bane’s touch, gasping. It should be embarrassing; he’s rutting against Bane’s hand like a damn teenager. Except when he’d been a teenager, he’d had to do far worse than this. This is almost _chaste_ in comparison, untainted by coercion, and John finally feels safe enough to sink deeper into his body.

He’s leaking into his underwear now; the drag of cloth isn’t as rough, and Bane’s hand is huge and warm against him, but it’s _not enough_. “I want,” John pants out, hands already scrambling to work his jeans open, “I need to—”

“Want or need, John?” Bane asks, and John lifts his head, goggling at the teasing tone.

“Are you _seriously_ being pedantic right now?” He asks in disbelief. The creases at the corners of Bane’s eyes deepen.

But, rather than reply, he bats John’s hands away to hook thick fingers in the waistband of John’s loosened jeans. He raises an eyebrow at John, and John lifts his hips up in response. Bane doesn’t hesitate. He only inclines his head in brief acknowledgement, and then he tugs John’s pants and underwear down in one movement.

The air is cold against John’s skin, but Bane curls his hand around John’s cock almost immediately. He starts jerking in long, steady strokes, and _fuck_ the cold. John will stand in the middle of the goddamn Arctic Circle, as long as Bane _doesn’t stop_.

“Keep going,” John says mindlessly, on the off-chance that Bane might stop, for some reason. He digs his heels into the bed, thrusts his hips upward in counterpoint to Bane’s fist, and watches Bane just as intently. And then Bane tightens his hand, just a fraction. John’s head falls back and his eyes squeeze shut as an almost-blinding bolt of pleasure streaks through him.

His orgasm builds - a steady, heavy pressure at the base of his spine, in his balls - and John fucking _writhes_. By sheer accident, it brings his thigh into contact with Bane’s cock. Bane hisses at the contact, presses closer for a moment. He pulls back after a second, still jerking John at that same unhurried pace.

But that brief contact is enough to jolt John out of his mind-blank state.

He’s being selfish, he realises, face burning. Focusing exclusively on himself, just like— like— John’s mind shies away from the comparison.

He pushes himself up and Bane moves back slightly to let him, hand slowing down. John makes an involuntary, desperate noise at that, but he doesn’t pause in reaching for Bane’s belt; he unbuckles it with clumsy fingers.

“John,” Bane says, his free hand settling over John’s. Judging by his tone, he’s clearly thinking about John’s almost-freak out earlier.

John pushes his hand away. “Let me,” he says thickly. “Just— let me. I don’t want to lay here and take it, like you’re— you’re _servicing_ me or something.” His cheeks burn hotter at those words, but it does the job. Bane’s hand falls away, and his breaths start coming a little faster.

It takes John a few more seconds to work Bane’s fly open. His fingers are slightly shivery and numb from lust, and he fumbles as he draws Bane’s cock out. John wraps his fingers around the base, and then hesitates, staring.

Bane is uncut, hard and blood-warm in John’s hand and he’s— big. Not monstrously so, and Bane’s a big guy. It only makes sense. And it’s not Bane’s size that has John hesitating anyway.

He’s done this - or, at least, something like this - more times than he cares to count. But it’s different here. He’s never once cared about making it good for his johns, beyond the desire to get paid or to avoid being beaten. But he cares now, and that makes all the difference in the world. He wants to— to _please_ Bane. He genuinely wants to make it good for him, and the fear of being a disappointment has John’s limbs locking up.

But Bane’s been watching him the whole time and, the second he freezes, Bane moves. He gets his other arm around John then moves back, hauling John up and forward into his lap. John lands with a startled yelp, straddling Bane’s legs.

Bane’s arm around his waist drops away immediately, and he reaches between them to grip both their cocks in one big hand. His other hand settles on John’s hip, and the touch is light - supporting, not controlling; John leans into it rather than squirming away. And then he pushes closer, gasping and bucking into Bane’s grip, as Bane starts jacking his hand.

It’s slow at first. Languid rolls of their hips and quiet, not-quite steady breaths. John glances up, and sees Bane still watching him. His eyes are hot and bright with single-minded focus, and he’s looking at John like he’s the only thing in the world right now; the freeing, reckless feeling in John’s chest returns. But it twines with something lighter, more fragile, and he can’t keep looking at Bane then.

He ducks his head, presses his forehead against Bane’s shoulder and thrusts against Bane. That gets Bane shoving up harder, and John almost falls off his lap before being saved by Bane’s steadying hand on his hip. Even so, John has to throw his hand out, brace it against the wall as Bane starts moving faster in a fluid rhythm that gets John trembling.

The air in the tunnels is cold, but it’s hot, sweat-damp between them. John’s sweating into his shirt and his jeans are constricting his movements slightly, and why the _hell_ hadn’t he taken them off? It’s too late for the jeans; there’s no way John’s moving away, not even for a second, but he manages to struggle out of his shirt eventually. There’s no grace to his movements at all, but John doesn’t care - just presses closer. The feel of skin against skin sends a tingling shock of _want_ sparking across his nerves; it gets his back arching, his thighs tensing, and John fucks into Bane’s hand - with purpose now, rather than grinding mindlessly. His orgasm, only briefly halted, builds rapidly.

“Fuck, fuck, God, fuck—” John chants, his mind completely awash with white noise. His body’s taken over, and John focuses on sensation to the exclusion of everything else.

Bane’s skin is incredibly warm, and his cock is a hard, heavy weight against John’s. The tight space of his fist has grown slick-wet from their pre-come, and every stroke has John gritting his teeth and groaning against Bane’s shoulder. Bane is breathing against his ear in quick, sharp rasps; each exhalation ghosts across John’s skin, making him shiver.

And then Bane lets out a sound - it’s quiet, throaty, and _unbelievably_ hot. It goes straight to John’s head, to his cock, and— oh, _fuck yes_.

John comes, hot and wet over Bane’s hand, hips stuttering and his breath catching on a moan. He collapses against Bane, a little boneless, not caring that he’s smearing his come across his stomach.

The unwavering strokes of Bane’s hand falter briefly, and then his hand tightens. He speeds up, stepping up the pace into something fast and hard, near frenzied. It’s another startling indicator of how _careful_ Bane had been with John, and John raises his head to meet Bane’s eyes. This time, he doesn’t look away from the intensity of Bane’s gaze.

The friction of Bane’s hand is almost painful, oversensitive as John is from his orgasm. But it’s only another half a dozen strokes before Bane’s eyes squeeze shut and he makes another sound - a growl, or possibly a groan, this time, and then he’s coming, breaths harsh and sharp.

But his hand remains gentle at John’s hip.

John stares down at that hand as his breathing evens out and his heart beat slows. It feels like that’s all he’s capable of doing, stunned as he is.

He’d let himself be vulnerable, for the first time in years. He’d let himself be vulnerable, and it had been _okay_. Bane hadn’t hurt him; Bane had been _careful_ with him. John can’t remember the last time someone had been careful with him. His throat closes up and his hands start to tremble.

Bane pulls back, pushes at John’s shoulders until he can look him over properly. “John,” he starts to say, brow furrowing.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” John says quickly, swallowing repeatedly, before Bane gets the wrong idea, before Bane thinks he’s pushed him into a flashback. “It’s just—” _that was the first time I wasn’t scared of being hurt. That was the first time I didn’t feel like a wreck afterwards,_ John thinks, but can’t say. He doesn’t _want_ to say it; doesn’t want to completely spoil the fragile mood between them.

He smiles at Bane instead.

Bane stares at him for a beat. Then he reaches up and brushes his thumb over John's cheek - over one of his dimples, John realises. Bane murmurs something under his breath, not in English.

“What was that?” John asks, raising his eyebrows.

Bane meets his eyes. “I said that you are a treasure. And that if I knew the identities of all who had hurt you, they would not be breathing now.”

John stares.

“That...” he starts, before lapsing into silence. That’s... nice? Horrifying? What the hell is he supposed to say to that? He knows Bane is more than capable of it, and that _is_ horrifying. But the statement is well-meant, and it’s...

It’s just so _typical_ of Bane.

A laugh bursts out of John, brief but real, and the fragile air between them shatters. But the bright, pleased feeling in John's chest doesn't shatter with it. It transmutes instead, into something strong and solid. Bane tilts his head, expression patient, and John grins at him.

“I, uh... I can’t decide if that's terrifying or sweet,” John says.

“Consider it both,” Bane says lightly. He brushes his thumb over John’s cheek again, then over his mouth.

It’s Bane’s version of a kiss, John thinks. It's the closest Bane can _ever_ come to a kiss. But before that dispiriting thought can drag John’s mood down, Bane draws him in closer and runs his thumb over his mouth a second time, slow and firm.

John smiles and presses a kiss back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, two weeks later than I said it would come out. I apologise for the delay, but this chapter comes second only to chapter 14 in terms of the chapter I found most difficult to write. I wanted to take care with it.
> 
> At this point, I feel I should point out that while I've tried to portray the details John's healing as accurately as possible, the constraints of the storyline do mean I've _sped up_ the time frame.
> 
> Finally, I know I said I was going to go a little more into Barsad and John's relationship, but pacing demands changed that a little. Next chapter, folks.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.


	20. Chapter 20

John lingers in Bane’s quarters, in his bed for— he doesn’t know how long. One hour, two hours - maybe more. And that’s another first for him, in a night that’s contained a lot of firsts already. He’s never had the luxury of lingering in a bed before. Even after he’d been taken off the street, after he’d finally been motivated to attempt the occasional one night stand, John had never _wanted_ to linger.

But this is different. _Bane_ is different, and the freedom of staying in his bed without having any demands placed upon him is heady, intoxicating. John thinks he could get used to this, if he allowed himself to. The thought is as comforting as it is terrifying, because the last thing John should want is to get close to someone else.

Getting close to other people is dangerous. Getting close to people gets you hurt.

But he does want it. He wants closeness, he wants affection, he wants _intimacy,_ and isn’t that normal? He’s been alone for so long and he’s tired of it.

 _It’s normal to want to feel close to people. You’re allowed this,_ he tells himself firmly. _You’re allowed to need people. You’re allowed to want things._

They talk on and off, their voices barely rising above a murmur. At first, it’s mainly John who talks, while Bane encourages him with short questions and thoughtful sounds. He talks about St. Swithin’s - about the boys he’d left behind, about Father Reilly. He tells Bane haltingly about his dad, about the vague memories he has of his mother, and how cheated he feels that he can remember the details of her death more clearly than he can remember her face.

“It was a car accident,” he says. “Which is just— bullshit. Saying it was an accident implies that it’s no one’s fault. There’s nothing _accidental_ about a drunk driver T-boning her car.”

Bane makes a quiet noise of contempt. “People will go to incredible lengths to avoid self-blame. They will blame alcohol and they will blame drugs, all the while ignoring the fact they’d chosen to take them.”

He sounds too bitter to be talking philosophically, and John thinks abruptly of the jagged scar running the length of Bane’s spine.

“Your back,” he says, before he can think better of it. “That’s— someone was drunk, or on drugs, and they hurt you. Didn’t they?”

Bane goes still. After a moment, he brings a hand up and runs his fingers through John’s hair. “Clever,” he says, and John can hear a faint pleased note in Bane’s voice. “But not quite.”

“What happened, then?”

Bane spends a few more moments carding his fingers through John’s hair. “I was injured,” he says finally. “When I was young.” He’s clearly choosing his words with care, and John waits him out. “Where I grew up, we had only one doctor. He was— incompetent. At best. He had a weakness for morphine.”

John sucks in a sharp breath. He gazes up at Bane, at the scar just visible past the collar of his vest. “He operated on you while he was _high?_ ”

Bane makes a grim sound of acknowledgement.

“Jesus,” John says, distantly horrified.

 _Where did you grow up?_ He wants to ask. _What kind of place has only one doctor, and lets him keep practicing when he’s_ that _incompetent?_

But as he stares at Bane, taking in the scar and the mask both, his brain goes down a different path, and what he ends up saying is, “That’s why you’re always in pain.”

There’s a short pause before Bane says, “Yes.”

“You were injured,” John says musingly. He rests his fingers lightly on Bane’s thick wrist brace. “It’s why you’re always wearing this, too, isn’t it? And the back brace. But the mask is for the pain.”

Bane’s gaze turns amused and pleased again, like John has just performed some neat trick. “Yes,” he says again. He resumes stroking John’s hair, and John is torn between the urge to relax into it and to pull away.

Because as much as part of him likes it - as much as part of him just wants to linger in Bane’s bed forever - the rest of him is already starting to put up defenses. Reality starts setting in, harsh and practical.

 _How is this going to change things?_ He wonders. Does Bane want to do this again? Hell, does John want to do this again? And the answer to that, John finds - right on the heels of the question - is yes. A very _easy_ yes, far easier than he’d ever have thought possible for himself.

But, if they _do_ do this again, John thinks, frowning, what exactly will Bane expect? Just... this? Just handjobs and a bit of frotting? Or does he expect John to blow him next time, or— or—

John takes a deep breath. Then another. And another.

He turns his mind away. He’s not going to think about doing— that. He won’t. He can’t. He turns his thoughts to other things instead. Like: how will Bane’s men react? Actually, screw Bane’s men. How will the _kids_ react?

 _Who says they have to know?_ Part of him whispers, and that just gets John frowning harder. He rubs his temple with one hand. Fuck, he hates thinking things through.

“There is something bothering you?” Bane asks, voice light. He trails a hand down John’s spine, tracing the vertebrae firmly, and this time John arches into the touch before he can stop himself.

“This...” John says, gesturing back and forth between them. “Do you...” he hesitates, trying to find a delicate way of saying it, and ends up drawing a blank. “Do you want to do this again?” He finally blurts.

A smile touches Bane’s eyes. “Yes,” he says, as easily as John had answered himself earlier.

John nods. Right. Okay, well, that answers one of his concerns. “Okay,” he says out loud.

Bane’s eyebrows rise minutely. “Did you not wish to?”

“No, no, that’s not it,” John says quickly. “I do want to. I _do._ ” His own eagerness surprises him. It even embarrasses him somewhat, and what the hell? How is it that he’s embarrassed now after— everything that he’s done? John laughs at himself, a little disbelieving.

His laughter fades after a few seconds and he peers up at Bane. “It’s just... is this going to change things?”

“How so?”

John flounders. He’s never fucked anyone more than once, a few regular clients aside - and they do _not_ fucking count, he tells himself fiercely - but—

“Are you going to act differently?” He asks finally.

Bane cocks his head. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know,” John says, confused. “I just thought you might.” He frowns down at his lap then adds, before he loses his nerve, “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know how this is supposed to work.” He has no idea, no frame of reference. He’s so out of his depth here he’s practically getting the bends. Relationship bends.

And, wow, the thought of being in _any_ kind of relationship with Bane is a little... weird.

Bane’s hand leaves his hair. A second later, he taps his knuckle lightly under John’s chin. John peers up at him reluctantly. Bane waits until John meets his gaze properly then says, “I want nothing more than what you have already given me.”

Well, that’s vague. “Which is?”

“Sex. Companionship. Honesty.”

John sits back, frowning. Bane makes it sound so easy. And John knows that’s how it is for some people. That’s how it is for most people, in fact. John even knows that’s how it should be, and part of him wants it so _badly_. But—

“It’s hard,” he says finally. “It’s hard for me to— trust. People.” Each word feels like a rusty nail being scraped against the inside of his throat.

“I am aware of that,” Bane says.

“And you still want to do this anyway?” John says, dubious. “Knowing that I’m a complete basket case?”

The solemnity leaves Bane’s eyes. “Yes,” he says, amused once more.

John shakes his head. Part of him is incredulous. But the rest of him - the majority of him, actually - is just gratefully, _dizzyingly_ relieved. He doesn’t know what to do about that, so he turns to the next concern on his list. “What about your men?” He asks.

“What of them?”

“Is this going to be an issue for them? You and me?” Probably not, considering none of them bat an eye at Daniel and Royer, but—

“Who I take to my bed is my concern alone,” Bane says.

“Okay,” John says, accepting that with a nod. They have a deal, after all. It’s Bane’s call when it comes to his men. But when it comes to the kids—

“I don’t want the kids to know about this,” John says firmly. “I don’t want them getting it into their heads that fucking your men is okay. Daniel and Royer are bad enough.” And, alright, he probably could have phrased that a little better, but speaking delicately has never been his strong suit.

Bane’s eyebrows go up. “You believe the children to be that impressionable?” He asks mildly. “That they would follow your example blindly?”

John screws his mouth up. “Don’t do that,” he says sharply. “Don’t twist what I say. That’s not what I meant.”

Bane leans back and says evenly, “Then what did you mean? And how do you plan on keeping this knowledge from them?” The look in his eyes isn’t cold, but the warm amusement is gone, too.

John shrugs, looking down at his lap. A hard lump is starting to form in his gut. The pleasant, easy atmosphere is fading fast. He’s— pretty sure he’s just screwed up. It feels like _he’s_ the one cheapening this, by trying to keep it quiet, and— Jesus. He just wants one conversation - just one fucking conversation - that isn’t riddled with crossed wires and misunderstandings. He’s not cut out for normal social interaction, clearly. But, even so, he wants it.

And it’s that yearning that pushes him to say quietly, “It’s got nothing to do with you. I mean—” he rushes to correct, “—it’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with this. I’m not that screwed up in the head that I can’t tell the difference between what we just did and— and hustling.”

God, he’s making a mess of this. John takes a deep breath and tries to marshall his words into some semblance of order before trying again. “I want— to do this again. But the kids are my priority. And they’re fucking _smart_. I don’t think they’re going to start screwing your men just because of—” John gestures between himself and Bane again.

“But they’ve learned some shit they shouldn’t have had to. I’ve spent months getting them to unlearn some of it. I’ve finally gotten them to accept that they don’t need to favour fuck for protection. They trust me to look out for them now. If they find out about this? About us? Some of them are going to think they’re only safe because I’m screwing you. I don’t want that.” He stares hard at Bane, willing him to understand.

Bane stares back for a moment, impassive, before a flicker of warmth touches his eyes. “You wish to keep this confined to these quarters?” He asks.

John thinks about it. Confined to just here? That sounds alright. He’s never been much for PDA, anyway. He nods firmly.

Bane brushes his fingers over John’s cheek, and John can’t help smiling. Nor can he help leaning into Bane’s touch. He turns his head to press another kiss to Bane’s thumb, to his knuckles. More warmth returns to Bane’s expression at that, and— Christ. How had John ever thought Bane was impossible to read?

“Very well,” Bane says, sounding indulgent and affectionate again.

They stay like that for a while longer, before John finally forces himself to sit up properly. “I should probably go,” he says quietly, already sliding one leg off the bed. “God knows what the kids have gotten up to while I’ve been gone.”

Bane accepts that with a nod and John stands up. He begins to turn away, before hesitating. He glances back at Bane, gnawing on his lip.

There’s an unfamiliar, low buzz of excitement running through him. There’s terror twisting in his gut too, but it doesn’t displace the excitement. John can’t erase what he’d learned on the street, this is— new. It feels like he’s starting over, like he’s just experienced sex for the first time.

The newness renders him almost shy as he says, “So... tomorrow night. Should I— should I come here?”

“Come here whenever you wish,” Bane says easily, and John feels like a shit heel more than ever for wanting to keep this quiet. But he’d come down here for the kids.

This thing between him and Bane—

 _It doesn’t change anything,_ he tells himself. _It_ can’t _be allowed to change anything._

He pushes the guilt aside.

“I’ll come here tomorrow night then,” John says.

 

* * *

 

When he arrives in the eastern tunnel, the lights are already off and, amazingly, most of the kids are already asleep. Only Tim and Emilio are still awake, poring over one of Jalil’s copies of _Maxim_ by flashlight. It’s such a typical, _mundane_ sight, after... everything that’s happened tonight that John almost starts laughing. He manages to tamp down on it until all that emerges is a quiet snort.

John flicks Tim and Emilio’s ears as he walks past. “Put that away and go to sleep. You’re going to be exhausted tomorrow.”

They obey, grumbling, and that’s bizarrely normal, too. John smiles as he climbs into his cot.

“Where were you?” Tim asks, shining the flashlight at him. He sounds curious but unsuspicious.

“Talking to Bane,” John replies smoothly. He reaches out, grabs the flashlight, and clicks it off.

He drops into sleep almost instantly.

 

* * *

 

John wakes abruptly, all his senses already on high alert. There’s someone nearby, _there’s someone leaning over him_.

It’s not one of the kids. They all know better than to wake him up by shaking him, or hovering over him. It’s not an intruder, because the mercs know better than to come near the eastern tunnel now. But if the kids and the mercs are out, that only leaves—

John grins into his pillow. Then he rolls onto his back and lunges upright, bringing his arms up defensively.

Barsad slaps his arms down, but John’s already moving. He twists away; rolls off the cot entirely as Barsad sweeps an arm out to knock him back down. He pops back onto his feet in a low crouch.

It’s a far cry from that first morning Barsad had woke him up, and John can’t help but feel a little proud over his progress. He grins wider, ready for Barsad’s next attack. It’s been weeks since they’d last sparred, and John has to admit he’s kind of missed it.

But Barsad doesn’t press his attack.

Instead, he just sniffs dismissively and drops back to a neutral stance. The fierce glimmer in his eye fades into his usual flat stare. Puzzled, John lowers his defense, too. Around them, the kids stream past. They’ve long since gotten used to Barsad’s special brand of wake up call for John, although they still keep their distance.

“What’s up?” John asks, when Barsad’s silence stretches into awkwardness.

“Have you spoken to the children about accompanying the men through the city yet?”

“...Not yet.”

“Why not?” Barsad scowls, and John is abruptly gripped by the urge to fidget. He forces himself to shrug nonchalantly instead.

“The kids were all sleeping by the time I got back last night.”

“You spoke to Bane early in the evening. It could not have taken that long.”

“It does when you argue about it.”

And that, weirdly, seems to make Barsad relax. “What are you objecting to now?” He grumbles. But John knows what Barsad sounds like when he’s _truly_ pissed off, and this is Barsad just grumbling for show.

“I talked it over with Bane already. I just don’t want the kids getting involved in anything that could get them picked up by the cops.”

“It is not dangerous work.”

“But it’s not legal work either.”

“Nor is working in a sewer.”

“They can stay hidden down here. Up there? Not so much. Anyway, it’s fine. Like I said, I worked it out with Bane. I’ll ask the older kids if they want to do it.”

Barsad nods. John half-expects that to be the end of it, but Barsad reaches out suddenly and grabs him by the wrist. He tugs John’s arm forward, bending close to examine the stitches. It’s a strange echo of what Bane had done, that first night, and John’s pulse kicks up a notch at the memory.

Jesus, he hopes Barsad doesn’t notice. Or, if he does notice, he hopes he doesn’t comment on it.

“Your arm has been healing well,” is all Barsad says, still peering closely at John’s arm.

“Yeah?” John says, willing his heartbeat to calm down. “Well enough for the stitches to come out? They’re starting to itch.”

Barsad makes a considering noise. “A few more days. But we can resume your training, at least.” He thinks for a moment, then adds: “Tonight, after the work is concluded. You clearly need the practice.”  The barest hint of a smirk ghosts across his face.

John snorts and pulls his arm out of Barsad’s grip. “Screw you,” he says pleasantly, shoving at Barsad’s shoulder. “I knew it was you. I was ready for you.”

“Yet you could not stop me from pushing your arms away. Sloppy.”

John flips him off merrily. And then he remembers that he has somewhere else to be tonight. Somewhere else he _wants_ to be. His throat goes slightly dry. “I, uh. I can’t spar tonight.”

There’s a weird beat, and then Barsad raises an eyebrow. “Why not?” He asks slowly.

“...I need to go over some stuff with Bane,” John says. It’s not his smoothest lie, not by a long shot, but shit. He wasn’t expecting Barsad to resume training _today_.

Barsad’s expression shuts down. “What sort of ‘stuff’?”

“Just— stuff,” John says evasively, and, what the fuck, why is he even lying anyway?

Then he thinks of Barsad’s tight, tense expression, as he told John that Bane wanted to speak to him. John had assumed Barsad was pissed the men were gossiping about him, but what if—

No, that doesn’t make sense. Why would Barsad give a shit about John having sex with Bane? Except— except it’s clear from Barsad’s too-still face that he does give a shit, and that he’s not happy about the idea either. John just doesn’t understand why he gives a shit.

“ _I_ am doing all the short-term logistical planning, including organising the message runners,” Barsad says flatly, when John’s silence apparently gets too long. “Bane is planning his own operation. I know for a fact that operation requires neither your involvement or the children’s.” He stares hard at John, and John can read the clear _‘don’t bullshit me’_ warning in his eyes.

This time, John really does start fidgeting. It kind of feels like he’s back in Sunday school, with Sister Margaret and her sharp glares and even sharper tongue. John looks away from Barsad’s piercing gaze, and he doesn’t speak again either.

The silence stretches on and on.

Finally, Barsad says, “Inform me when you’ve spoken to the children.” His voice is inflectionless, but, after months of sarcastic banter and affectionate mockery, it sounds immeasurably cold to John.

Barsad turns away before John can come up with a response, and John ends up staring at the man’s rapidly retreating back.

 _What the fuck was that all about?_ He wonders.

 

* * *

 

As much as John would like some time to think - to reflect on the previous night, to puzzle over Barsad’s behaviour - he doesn’t get that indulgence. There’s work to be done, and it’s seemingly never ending. It’s still menial physical labour, but there’s _lots_ of it - ferrying away rubble; hauling heavy, crated supplies to the tunnel mouths; assembling scaffolding.

John stares up at the network of scaffolds and rope harnesses that have reached the very top of the chamber now. He can only spot one— no, two— bright yellow hard hats in the glare of the work lamps. Every other man up in the scaffolds, drilling and packing the holes, is a League man. And that’s typical nowadays; John very rarely sees construction workers in the sewers anymore.

Things are changing still. The expectant vibe John had sensed from the men weeks ago has shifted. It feels a lot more like _excitement_ now, and John is... torn. Uneasy, maybe. Bane’s men being excited can only mean one thing.

And while John wants to see Gotham change - _truly_ change - he’s not naive enough to believe it can happen without violence. Even if, through some bizarre twist of chance, it happens without violence, there’s no guarantee that things won’t get bloody in the aftermath. The thought makes him more than a little sick.

He wonders what he’s going to do when the work in the tunnels is done. Actually, Jesus, what are the _kids_ going to do? The older kids - those who accept Bane’s offer, at least - will still have work as Bane’s message runners. But that still leaves John with more than a classroom’s worth of kids who are too young to go running around Gotham at all hours. What are they going to do? Or, more accurately, what is _he_ going to do with them? John pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, and adds it to the list of things to think over when he finally gets some time alone.

At the end of the work period, John snags Jalil by the elbow. “Go gather up everyone who’s older than—” John thinks for a second, “—sixteen. Bring them here. I need to talk to them all.”

Jalil gives him a curious look, but he doesn’t ask any questions, and he leaves immediately to do as John asks. Less than ten minutes later, John has every kid over the age of sixteen assembled before him— plus two more.

He gives Tim and Mark an exasperated look. “What part of ‘sixteen and over’ didn’t make sense?”

“Uhh, the part where you leave _us_ out of the loop?” Tim says, gesturing back and forth between himself and Mark. “The two guys who helped you get down here?”

“Yeah,” Mark chimes in.

“I’m not leaving you guys out of the loop. This is a job offer. It needs kids who won’t immediately get picked up by the cops for violating curfew, and you two definitely would be.”

Tim scowls and leans in toward John. “I’m totally smarter than, like, three-quarters of these guys,” he mutters.

John rolls his eyes. It’s _true,_ but— “Intelligence isn’t the issue. Age is.”

“Fine,” Tim says huffily. “But we still want to know what’s going on. You’re not supposed to keep stuff from us. You never have before.” Tim crosses his arms, expression stubborn. Mark, ever loyal, imitates him.

And John knows Tim is just talking about the job offer, not— anything else. He _knows_ that. He still feels an unpleasant twist of guilt anyway. It’s the guilt that makes him sigh then relent, saying, “Okay, have it your way.”

Tim and Mark perk up instantly, and they take up position right at the front of the small crowd as John lays out the details of Bane’s job offer - what little there is of it.

“We’re gonna be delivering _just_ messages?” Jalil asks when John stops talking.

John quirks an eyebrow. “What else do you think you’ll be delivering?”

Jalil shrugs, hands spread wide. “I dunno, man. You tell me. I just don’t wanna be picked up by the cops and find out I’m carrying, like, a dimebag of coke or—”

“God, you’re a moron,” Daniel cuts in, voice and expression withering.

John blinks at him, surprised. He’s settled arguments aplenty, but Daniel isn’t usually a participant. Then again, the only extended argument John has ever had with any of the kids has been with Daniel.

“The League doesn’t do that sort of thing,” Daniel continues, sounding almost proud. He tilts his chin up, staring down the length of his nose at Jalil in a clear mirror of Royer. John doesn’t think Daniel is even aware of it, but it sends a shiver of anxiety through him all the same.

 _This is why,_ he thinks. _This is why the kids can’t find out about Bane._ Some of them are too close to falling in with the League as it is.

“Listen to the inside man,” Jalil says, rolling his eyes. “Not all of us get little whispers in our ears while we get fucked up the—”

“ _Enough,_ ” John snaps. He points at Daniel and Jalil in quick succession. “You can have an argument without insulting each other and dragging unnecessary shit into it.” Both boys subside immediately, albeit sullenly. John stares at them for a second longer, just to ensure they’re not going to start up again, then continues:

“Like I said, this job is a side job. It’s voluntary. You don’t have to do it if you have any misgivings. Take some time to think about it. Actually, I’d _prefer_ it if you took some time to think about it.”

Much to his chagrin, the majority of them don’t take the time to think it over. In less than ten minutes, John ends up with more than twenty kids who are willing to message run immediately. He doesn’t argue with them. Bane may say he’s overprotective to the point of being patronising, but John knows his kids; he knows when they will and will not let him protect them, and this isn’t one of those situations. So John takes down their names, despite his misgivings, and goes to find Barsad.

Tries to, anyway.

Barsad is nowhere to be found, and none of the League men have any clue where he is either.

John checks all of Barsad’s usual haunts, and even some of the less usual ones, but all turn up empty. It’s more than a little irritating—

( _Why get so pissy and impatient if you’re not even going to be around later?_ John thinks.)

—and somewhat confusing, too. But after an hour’s worth of searching still yields no sign of Barsad, John finds his irritation giving way to unsettled concern.

Barsad is _always_ around, and easy to find. He’s Bane’s second-in-command, and he oversees the day-to-day stuff even more than Bane does. Even if they have instructions not to disturb him, the men always know where Barsad is. Barsad disappearing without a word, and for so long, is just— unheard of.

John wonders if it has anything to do with him; with the weird, not-quite-argument he’d had with Barsad in the morning. It’s the only thing he can think of, but it still doesn’t make sense. Seriously. Why would Barsad give a shit about John sleeping with Bane? And even if he did, would he really give a shit to the point of avoiding John like a teenager? John shakes his head. Out of ideas, and feeling somewhat unsettled, he goes to see Bane.

He finds Bane sitting at his makeshift table in his quarters. His gaze is trained on the LCD monitors, expression intent, but he nevertheless looks over the instant John enters. A smile touches his eyes, and part of John is sorely tempted to say _‘fuck it’_ , go to Bane, and worry about Barsad later.

However, the rest of his brain overrides the impulse, and John finds himself dithering near the entrance as he says, “I’m kind of worried about Barsad.”

Bane’s expression flickers. It’s clear that’s not what he expected John to say. There’s a brief pause before he says, “Why?”

“He’s— I dunno. I couldn’t find him before. And none of your men knew where he was. That’s— that’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”

“Barsad has been tasked with multiple responsibilities. Some of them take him above ground.”

“So you know where he is then?”

“I do not.”

John’s brow furrows. “...You don’t think that’s weird?”

Bane leans back in his seat. “Not particularly. Barsad has always preferred his own company.”

 _Not really,_ John wants to say. _Not in my experience._ Out loud he says, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it, but I think he’s avoiding me.”

Bane raises an eyebrow. There’s another pause before he again says, “Why?”

John shuffles his feet awkwardly. “We had a— well, I wouldn’t really call it an argument, but I think Barsad knows. About... y’know.” He gestures wordlessly between them.

Bane’s eyebrow inches higher. “And you believe he does not approve.”

“I’m pretty _sure_ he doesn’t,” John replies. “I just can’t figure out _why._ ”

Bane shrugs. “I can see no reason why he would disapprove. And he has raised no such concerns with me.”

John purses his mouth briefly in thought. “Yeah, but would he really say anything to you if you’re involved?”

Rather than reply immediately, Bane holds a hand out to John. He doesn’t speak until John takes it and is standing right before him, in the juncture of his spread thighs. “Barsad is not one to hold his tongue or avoid conflict if he takes issue with something. If he disapproves, he will say as much.” He rubs his thumb back and forth across John’s knuckles, and the gesture is surprisingly relaxing. The tense worry in John’s gut eases a little.

He smiles wryly at Bane and says, “So I’m worrying about nothing is what you’re saying?”

“Worrying needlessly, perhaps,” Bane says. He lifts his free hand and skims his fingers across John’s cheek, lingering over the dimple again.

John’s grin turns crooked. “So help me take my mind off it, then.” He winces almost immediately after the words leave his mouth. He’d meant it honestly, but the phrase had come out sounding embarrassingly flirtatious. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be comfortable with flirting again.

It pulls a quiet, amused chuckle out of Bane, though. He reels John in closer. His hand is a gentle, undemanding pressure at the small of John’s back, and John revels in it, in this intimate touch so freely given. His concerns about Barsad haven’t been eased entirely, but it’s enough for now. John doesn’t want to worry about it, in this moment. He doesn’t want to worry about anything. So he smiles at Bane, presses in closer, and lets everything go for a while.

 

* * *

 

Over the following days, John is surprised to discover that he _likes_ sex; enjoys it, even.

Enjoys it a lot.

He tells himself he shouldn’t be that surprised. He’s in his twenties, he’s not being coerced, and Bane is patient with him. Still. It surprises him just how _much_ he likes it.

He goes to Bane every night. Part of him thinks he should be more discreet about it, given that he’s trying to ensure the kids don’t find out. Taking off every night, barely an hour after the evening meal, is hardly conducive to keeping this... thing with Bane a secret. However, when it comes to sex, John finds he apparently has only a minimum of self-control.

It should be embarrassing that he apparently has as much impulse control as the teenagers he’s looking after. It should be humiliating that he’s almost become a slave to his body. But it _isn’t,_ because Bane never seems to judge him for it. There’s never contempt, or even veiled amusement, in Bane’s eyes when John clambers into his lap, graceless and clumsy in his eagerness. Just easy acceptance and pleased touches, and John takes them all with the greedy hunger of a starving man.

Even so, it doesn’t always go well.

Odd things set him off - trigger him, to use Bane’s (and John’s old therapist’s) terminology; John can’t always predict what. Bane’s hand on his shoulder or near his face at the wrong moment makes him flinch away. And the one time he’d had to wait on the bed while Bane moved around his quarters, seemingly not noticing him, had made him so anxious he’d lost his erection completely. It had felt too similar - and yet incredibly different - to the run up to a mind game from a john.

But Bane is true to his word. He doesn’t change his mind - not even after the times John near-scrambles away from him - and he doesn’t demand more than John is willing to give. It makes John _want_ to give him more, even though he can’t bring himself to do anything beyond handjobs. But he feels safe enough to test his own boundaries; to persevere past the supposed failures. And the first time John manages to lay on his back - Bane’s cock in his grip, Bane bracketing him in completely with his bulk - and _stay_ like that, is nothing short of incredible. It feels like a victory and a revelation, all at once.

 

* * *

 

While things with Bane are going well - more than well, if John’s being honest - John’s relationship with Barsad only seems to be getting worse. Contrary to Bane’s opinion, Barsad doesn’t voice whatever it is that’s bothering him. Nor does he stop avoiding John.

When John hands him the list of kids wanting to message run, Barsad takes it with a cursory nods before turning and walking away. When Choi - one of Bane’s field medics - declares that John’s stitches are ready to be taken out, Barsad doesn’t even bother looking up from his meal as he tells Choi to take care of it. And he doesn’t approach John with another offer to spar again.

It rankles John, the way Barsad seems bound and determined to express his disapproval through uncharacteristic passive aggression. After a while, it confuses him again. And then, as the days wear on, it honestly starts to _upset_ him. John wishes it didn’t. It’s not like he’s unused to disappointing people. He’s practically made a career out of it, starting with his first set of foster parents at age nine.

Still, he _misses_ Barsad. He misses his prickliness, and his sarcasm, and, most of all, he misses Barsad’s easy acceptance of him. In all the time John’s known Barsad, Barsad has never judged him. But he’s judging John now, and John isn’t sure what to do about that.

The obvious solution, he knows, would be to stop visiting Bane. But there’s no way in hell that’s going to happen. Barsad may be the first friend John’s had in a long while, but Bane is— he’s something else. He’s companionship and sex and _intimacy_. He’s everything John has wanted but never thought he’d have, and John isn’t giving that up. Not even for Barsad’s friendship.

Bereft of Barsad’s company, John starts spending even more time with Bane and the other League men. The men seem happy enough to make room for him in their after-hours drinking circle. But the change doesn’t go unnoticed.

“ _On dirait que quelqu’un est jaloux,_ ” Royer says to Baudin, a fellow Frenchman, as they watch Barsad stalk past, resolutely not looking at John. Baudin makes a vague noise of agreement.

John frowns at them. He doesn’t understand a lick of French – he’d taken Spanish in high school, and he’d barely paid attention in class – but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what _‘jaloux’_ probably means.

What the hell is Royer implying, saying that Barsad is _jealous_? Christ, the men don’t believe that Barsad and John were fucking, do they? Or that Barsad is attracted to John? Because John _knows_ when men are checking him out, and Barsad has _never_ checked him out.

 _But,_ part of him says, _what if Royer is right? You don’t need to be attracted to someone to feel jealous over their attention._ John taps his fingers against his thigh pensively, his thoughts ticking over.

 _Barsad has always preferred his own company,_ Bane had said. However, John isn’t entirely sure that’s true. He remembers what Kaleem and Moreno had said, after all. It was the other League members who’d kept their distance from Barsad, not the other way around. He casts a speculative look at Barsad, as the other man strides away down a side tunnel.

Barsad’s the first friend John has had in a while, it’s true. But maybe John is the first friend Barsad has had in a while, too, and John’s chest wrenches with affection and sympathy both. He glances around then gets to his feet and follows Barsad down the side tunnel.

Barsad is several feet ahead of him, so John doesn’t make any effort to conceal himself or smother the sound of his footsteps. Besides, no matter the distance, there’s no way Barsad would fail to notice him. But Barsad doesn’t pause, or turn his head, or acknowledge John’s presence in any way.

John’s affectionate sympathy twists into affectionate exasperation. “Hey!” He finally calls out. “Just _what_ is your problem?”

Barsad glances over his shoulder, but doesn’t stop walking. “I have numerous problems,” he says. “Logistical ones, tactical ones... to which of these are you referring?”

John rolls his eyes. “Don’t pull that contrary bullshit.”

“What ‘contrary bullshit’?”

“ _This_ contrary bullshit,” John says. He puts on an extra burst of speed, grabs Barsad by the elbow and forces him to stop. “Why do you keep dodging me? And why have you been so pissy lately?”

Barsad jerks his arm away. “It is none of your concern.”

John gives him a look. “Sure it isn’t. You acting like I’m worse than a bit of crap on the bottom of your shoe is in no way my concern.”

“Exactly. I commend you on your basic grasp of English. Well done.”

“I have a basic grasp of sarcasm, too,” John replies. A hint of a smirk touches Barsad’s mouth. But it vanishes instantly when John adds, “Is this about Bane? About— about me and Bane?”

Barsad just _looks_ at him.

“It _is,_ isn’t it?” John says, when it becomes clear Barsad isn’t going to say anything else. He shakes his head. “Jesus. Okay. But I don’t— _why?_ What’s your problem with it? Do you— do you have a problem with two guys—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Barsad snaps.

John throws his arms up. “Then why are you acting like this?” When all he gets is stubborn silence, he adds, “The other men are saying you’re jealous.”

It gets the look he expects from Barsad. “And you believe them?”

“No,” John says quickly, although part of him says _‘maybe’_. “But you obviously have some kind of problem with it, so just spit it out already. I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

Barsad’s expression turns combative. John can’t blame him. He’d fucking hate it if someone tried backing him into a corner like this, and he braces himself for the argument that’s about to come.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, Barsad just glares narrowly then turns away and starts walking again. He gestures imperiously for John to follow. Still bracing himself, John falls into step with him. Their footsteps echo along the tunnel, almost in sync. After a few seconds, John realises they’re heading toward the training tunnel. However, before he can comment on that - ask if Barsad wants an impromptu sparring session or something - Barsad says: “Do you think what you are doing is wise?”

John’s footsteps falter. He’s not exactly sure what he’d expected Barsad to say. But whatever he’d expected, it definitely hadn’t been that. “Have you— have you been _worried_ about me?” John asks incredulously.

Barsad makes an irritated sound. “Answer the question.”

Rather than do so, John asks, “Why wouldn’t it be wise?”

Barsad grimaces like his worst fears have been confirmed. Then the grimace morphs into a scowl. “Did you think at all before you entered into this— _game_ with him?” He demands. “Or were you simply being reckless and impulsive as usual?”

His tone gets John’s hackles rising instantly. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You heard me.”

Unbidden, John’s mind conjures up a memory of Daniel. More specifically, Daniel and his defensiveness in the face of John’s assumptions about him and Royer. It’s a little disconcerting, being on the other side of things.

A little disconcerting, and _a lot_ aggravating, because John hasn’t had anyone protect him in years. He hasn’t _needed_ anyone to protect him in years. It’s far too late for that. John can feel the old, reflexive anger stirring in his chest, and his mouth thins.

“If you’re trying to protect my virtue or something... I hate to tell you, man, but that ship sailed a long time ago.” The words taste like bitter ash on his tongue.

Barsad makes another irritated sound, louder this time. “I am trying nothing of the sort. Stop avoiding the question. Did you think before you started this?”

The truth, John realises, is that he hadn’t. It had been a spur of the moment decision, even though Bane had made it clear John could back out at any time. Still— “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

Barsad shakes his head, seemingly disgusted. “You are like a child. You are content to remain ignorant, as long as your needs are being met—”

“Ignorant about _what?_ ”

“Do you know what Bane’s plans are?”

“ _Of course_ I do. And, by the way, they’re your plans, too. I know what you guys are planning for Gotham—”

“Do you know what his plans for _you_ are?”

And that pulls John up short, stoppers his anger abruptly. Barsad stops with him, only a few paces away from the entrance to the training tunnel.

John opens his mouth to say _yes_ \- an automatic lie to shut the argument down - but Barsad’s accusing stare kills the lie before it even leaves his throat. John stares at Barsad, mind whirring.

What _does_ he know about Bane’s plans for him? Nothing, John realises.

He’d wondered, idly, but those thoughts had always - inevitably - shifted to the kids, to ensuring they’d be protected. He hadn’t given a thought as to what he’d be doing. He hadn’t cared, as long as he was in a position where he could continue watching over the kids.

Barsad is watching him, jaw set. His expression is contemptuous and still _inexplicably_ angry. “Well?” He demands.

John shakes his head mutely.

Barsad says something under his breath. Louder, he says, “Perhaps you should find out.” He turns toward the training tunnel, evidently thinking the conversation is over. But he halts when John blurts, “Why are you telling me this?” When Barsad halts at the tunnel entrance, John adds, “Why would you warn me about Bane?” Because Barsad _has,_ even if he hasn’t done it overtly.

Barsad sniffs. “I find wilful ignorance irritating.”

John absorbs that. Barsad doesn’t suffer fools gladly, it’s true, but— “How does it help you, or Bane, if I know that he’s planning something for me?”

There’s a short silence. “It does not help me. Or Bane,” Barsad says finally.

Completely bewildered now, John says, “Then _why?_ I thought— I thought you were loyal to the League, to your cause. You said you were willing to _die_ for your cause.”

Barsad says something in another tongue. The only word John manages to catch is ‘kija-chaa’, and he _still_ doesn’t know what that means. He huffs a little. “In English, please.”

“I am loyal to my cause,” Barsad mutters after a beat. His gaze flicks toward John then away. “...But I am loyal to my brothers and sisters first.”

For a full minute, John doesn’t speak. He doesn’t think he _can_ speak. There’s hope thudding in his chest, tenuous and treacherous, forcing the breath from his lungs. He’s been alone for so long. He’s spent so much of his time on the outside, or on the fringes, that the concept of family - of _belonging_ \- seems fantastical, almost mythic.

John stares at Barsad silently, taking in the way the he resolutely avoids John’s gaze. Barsad will never admit whether he’s been jealous or not, he realises. He’ll always play his cards close to his chest. John can understand that wariness. And really, does it matter whether he admits it or not?

“What does kija-chaa mean?” John asks, when he finds his voice again.

Barsad’s expression flickers. There’s another long, long silence - long enough that John starts thinking he’s not going to get an answer. And then:

“Little brother,” he says, still not quite looking at John. “It means ‘little brother’.”

And then it’s John’s turn to look away. He stares down at the ground, throat uncomfortably tight. He swallows repeatedly until the feeling passes, although there’s still a breathlessness that lingers. He’s not sure what to say. He’s never been good with words, let alone expressing anything like sentiment or vulnerability. But he can’t just let this pass in silence. Barsad deserves more than that.

“I never had an older brother,” John says finally, his tongue clumsy. “But if I had, I think I would’ve wanted one like you.” He risks a glance at Barsad, and ends up meeting his steady blue gaze.

Barsad doesn’t speak again, but his mouth curves slowly into a small smile. John smiles back.

 

* * *

 

Barsad’s warning preys on John’s mind long after they’d parted ways. He sits on his cot, watching without really seeing, as the kids go about their usual evening activities.

 _You can’t put your trust in anyone, except yourself and the people you call your own,_ John thinks. It’s a motto that’s served him well for close to a decade. Why the hell had he thought it was a good idea to get closer to Bane? The hard, ever-suspicious part of John - never that far below the surface - rises up again.

But then his mind focuses on Barsad’s warning again. It focuses on Barsad’s wary protectiveness and his frustration at John’s seeming recklessness, in particular. And then it turns to Bane, to the way he has been for the past week.

John thinks of Bane’s patience, and the gentle brush of his fingers. He thinks of the strength in those hands as he cradled John’s hips, or his jaw, or the back of his head, and he remembers that Bane’s hands were always steadying, never controlling.

 _That’s why,_ he thinks. Bane hasn’t hurt him, has never forced him. John trusts Bane not to hurt him.

But he doesn’t trust him - _can’t_ trust him - with everything else.

John lies awake, long after the lamps have gone out and the kids have dropped off to sleep. He permits himself the indulgence of brooding, of self-pity. And then he starts planning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively quiet chapter. Probably the last quiet chapter for a while. And I'm sorry, sorry, sorry for the semi-hiatus. I lost my writing groove, found it again, lost it, ad nauseum. *helpless pathetic face* But this fic will be finished. I promise.
> 
> "On dirait que quelqu’un est jaloux." = "Looks like someone is jealous." (Thank you for the translation help, sorelh!)


	21. Chapter 21

News always reaches John quickly nowadays.

It’s partly due to his unofficially official position as the kids’ guardian, but mostly due to the fact that the work has been slowing down. Everyone’s had more time to stare at the scenery (what little there is of it) lately. And seeing the same faces, the same surroundings, day in and day out, means the kids are forever on the look out for new entertainment. John would liken them to rats in their hyper-awareness of their surroundings, except he doesn’t much care for the other connotations.

So when Tim comes barrelling down the eastern tunnel, just before breakfast, practically shouting, “ _Something’s happening,_ ” John figures its only been five minutes, tops, between said something happening and Tim coming to find him.

John swings his legs over the side of his cot, scrubbing sleep out of his eyes. Most of the kids are already wide awake and moving around, but John doubts any of them spent the past night brooding and planning; he figures he can cut himself some slack.

“What’s happening?” John asks as Tim skids to a halt beside him.

“I don’t know,” Tim says, breathless and excited. “But it’s something _big_. Bane and some other guys are getting suited up.”

John’s eyebrows go up. His pulse thumps harder and his stomach roils as he wonders, _is this it?_ _Is the revolution starting now?_

If it is, all John’s planning has been for moot. But, then again, surely Bane would’ve given John some kind of notice before he started? A warning to get the kids out, or get them ready, or— something. _Anything._

John gets to his feet, frowning. He peers down the tunnel. He can’t see much, other than the silhouettes of League men walking back and forth, but he can hear them talking. Their voices are cheerful, almost excited, and their conversation is punctuated by metallic clicks and rattles. John’s spent enough time around Barsad to know what those sounds are. His anxiety spikes. He grabs his shoes, jams his feet into them, and heads for the tunnel mouth.

“Are you gonna find out what’s going on?” Tim asks. He’s half-skipping to keep up.

“Yeah,” John says. He puts a hand out. “Stay here.” He doesn’t check to see if Tim obeys; just keeps walking.

He emerges from the eastern tunnel into a flurry of activity. Bane and three other men stand at the epicentre of it. To John’s semi-relief, they’re the only ones loading guns. However, he’s not entirely relieved, because, Jesus Christ, _they’re loading guns._ Not just little pistols either. John spots more than one submachine gun being passed around. He averts his eyes and makes his way over to Bane, who greets him with a nod and a slight smile in his eyes.

John doesn’t smile back. “What’s going on?”

Bane raises an eyebrow at his tone. “We are preparing for an operation.”

“Yeah, I can see that. What _kind_ of operation?”

Amused look from Bane. “You seem anxious.”

“I am anxious,” John replies. “Is this— are you starting it now? The revolution you’ve been planning?” _You were supposed to warn me._

“It may perhaps be more accurate to describe this as a precursor to the revolution.”

“I thought—” John starts to say, then lowers his voice. “I thought we were going to talk about this beforehand. About what the kids are going to be doing. About what _I’m_ going to be doing.”

“And we shall,” Bane says, in the same low undertone. “When the time comes.” He turns away, heading for the stairs to his quarters. It feels a hell of a lot like a dismissal, and John’s mouth tightens.

He follows Bane up the stairs, saying, “You still haven’t told me what’s going on.”

Bane glances over his shoulder at him, but doesn’t stop walking. “You have never expressed a desire to know the precise details of our activities before,” he says, and John can hear the unspoken question: _what changed?_

John shrugs. “I’ve been rethinking my ‘wait until the revolution starts’ stance,” he says, deliberately nonchalant.

“And why is that?”

“I can’t make back-up plans or prepare for anything if I don’t know what’s going on.” It’s not exactly a lie.

“If all goes according to plan, there will be no need for you to make emergency preparations.”

It’s a blatant dodge, and John barely manages to rein in his scowl. Barsad’s warning rises up in his memory again. _Do you know what his plans for_ you _are?_

“Can you guarantee that?” John demands as they enter Bane’s quarters. The familiar dim gloom swallows them both up. “Can you really guarantee that everything will go according to plan?”

Bane makes a noncommittal sound. He sits down at his table and gestures for John to take a seat. John sits on the edge of Bane’s bed, elbows braced on his knees.

“This is the only reason you are asking?” Bane asks. “Because you wish to make contingency plans for the children?” His voice is mild, but he’s fishing - John’s sure of it.

“Yeah,” John says, the lie rolling off his tongue smoothly. “The kids are my business. Same as always. If there’s even the slightest chance the cops might follow you down here, I need to know. I have to make sure I can get the kids out.” It’s flimsy reasoning at best, but it’s all he can come up with on the fly.

“You assume the police will pursue us.”

“Get real,” John scoffs. “Your men are packing guns down there.” He meets Bane’s eyes. “Quit dodging.”

Bane tilts his head, eyeing John narrowly. John holds his gaze. Bane takes a long, indrawn hiss of breath. Then: “We are committing a break in, of sorts.”

John frowns. “You’re packing all that heat for a break in?”

“It is no ordinary break in.”

“What’re you breaking into? Fort Knox?”

Flicker of amusement in Bane’s eyes. “Not quite,” he says. “The Gotham Stock Exchange.”

John blinks. Blinks again. “…What?”

“The Gotham Stock Exchange,” Bane repeats patiently.

John stares at him, wondering if this is another example of Bane’s weird, splintered knowledge. Does Bane even know how money works? “There isn’t any money at the stock exchange.”

Bane lets out a low, aspirated chuckle. “Debatable,” he replies. “But, regardless, we will not be breaking in to steal. Our goal is to place something _in_ their systems.”

John processes that. “You’re going to screw around with the stock market?”

Bane nods.

“Huh,” John says, thoughtful. That… doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe. It’s not stealing, at least. And it’s not like Bane is fucking around with _real_ money. But— “If you do this, the cops are gonna be all over you.”

“Most certainly.”

John’s feigned concern slides into real concern. “Then I’m getting the kids out of here.”

Bane raises an eyebrow. “A premature course of action.”

“You’re hitting the _stock exchange,_ ” John says, slowly and clearly. “All those yuppies in there? They’re going to freak out _._ There’s no way the cops will stop chasing you.”

Bane gets up from his chair and moves closer. He cups John’s jaw in one huge hand. “We will not lead them back here,” he says. “The children will be safe.”

“You can guarantee that?”

“There are no guarantees in life, save for the guarantee that our lives will one day end.”

John frowns. “That’s a ‘no’ then.”

Bane strokes John’s cheek with his thumb, expression fond. “Make your plans, if you must,” he says finally. “I only advise that you refrain from acting upon them immediately. Barsad will be monitoring the operation from here, via radio. You may stay with him, if you wish. In the unlikely event that something does not go to plan, you will have more than sufficient notice to evacuate the children.”

John considers that. It sounds reasonable. Logical. Then again, everything Bane says sounds logical, even when he’s talking about cold-blooded murder and wholescale anarchy. But if John gets the kids out now, and Bane succeeds and brings about his revolution, what then? Which is better? Stuck on the streets, or with Bane? Better to stay with Bane, at least for now.

John rubs his forehead, frowning. “Alright,” he says finally, quietly.

Bane strokes his cheek again, looking pleased. John lets himself lean into the touch, greedily soaking up the affection for a few moment, then pulls away. He makes his way to the stairs, saying, “I’m going to talk to the kids.” However, when he reaches the threshold, John finds himself turning back to add: “Good luck.”

“I have the devil’s own luck, or so I’ve been told,” Bane says, smiling. “But the sentiment is appreciated, nevertheless.”

 

* * *

 

The kids take the news that they may have to evacuate with relative composure - most of them know better than to think of any place as ‘home’. They spend a few minutes bemoaning the fact they may have to leave the showers behind, before conversation turns to more practical discussions of where to go.

John listens to them talk, an undercurrent of anxiety seeping into him as he imagines them scattering across Gotham, out of reach. Trying to quell the anxiety, he turns his mind to other things. Like trying to figure out what Bane has planned for him. He can’t rely on Bane to tell him the whole truth; Bane’s wary suspicion in the face of John’s questions had said as much. But there are other ways of finding out.

John sits up, saying, “Who’s going on a message run today?”

He gets three raised hands in response: Jalil, Emilio, and Jade. Jade is the closest, so John points at her and beckons her over.

“What’s up, boss man?” Jade asks, once she’s at his side.

John ignores the nickname - _it’s better than ‘dad’, at least,_ he thinks with a shudder - and says, “The people you deliver messages to. They always the same people?”

Jade shakes her head. “Different people, all over the city. Some offices, some construction sites. Some really fancy apartments, once or twice.”

John frowns. “So they don’t recognise you on sight? How do you get in to deliver the messages, then?”

“We say at the gate that we have a courier message from Henri Ducard. That’s what Barsad told us to say. We always get let in.”

John pulls his chin in, thinking. “Do you have your messages already?” When Jade nods and pulls a pair of envelopes out of her pocket, John holds his hand out. “Give them to me.”

Startled look from Jade. “Why?”

“I’ll deliver them for you,” John says. “You’ll still get paid for it,” he adds, reassuring. “I just— I need to check something out.” Before she can ask what, he says, “I also need you to do something for me.”

“What do you need?”

“A street map of the city,” John says. He fishes his backpack out from under his cot. “One of those foldout maps, not a street directory. Make sure it covers the whole city. Oh, and get me some markers while you’re at it.” He unzips his backpack and pulls a tight roll of cash out from the inside pocket; peels off a few bills and hands them to Jade.

Jade accepts the money with a raised eyebrow. “Why can’t you just pick that stuff up on the next supply run?”

“You’re a smart girl,” John says. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Jade tilts her head, thinking. “You don’t want Barsad or whoever it is on the supply run to see you buy it,” she says, after a moment. “Because they might mention it to Bane.”

“Got it in one.”

“And you want to deliver the messages because you want to— what? See who the messages are going to?” Jade frowns. “You sure it’s a good idea to poke into their business?”

John laughs humourlessly. “Actually, I’m not sure it is,” he says, kneeling down to shove his backpack under the cot again. “But I don’t think I have much choice.”

“You know something we don’t?”

John glances up. Jade stares back at him. She’s chewing gum loudly, but her dark eyes are solemn, and she stands tall, hands on her hips.

 _She’s so young,_ John thinks.

But she isn’t, at the same time. John remembers being her age; what he was like at that age. He wouldn’t have appreciated having the truth kept from him, even if it was for his own supposed safety.

“Yeah,” John says. He pushes himself to his feet. “I know something. And I promise I’ll tell you guys about it soon. I just need some more information first. Okay?”

Jade holds his eyes for a moment, then nods, trusting. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Like most of downtown Gotham, East Park Side is dominated by skyscrapers and high rise apartment buildings. It’s almost as dense as the Narrows, but several tax brackets higher. John is familiar with all of Gotham, but he’s particularly well acquainted with East Park Side. If someone was accompanying him, John could probably take them on a walking tour of juvenile delinquency.

_That deli used to be a pawn shop._

_That laundromat across the street - that’s where I stole a bunch of clothes after I got out of juvie._

_I broke into that electronics store once._

But there isn't anyone with him. For the first time in several months, John is _alone_. On supply runs, he’s always had Barsad or Moreno with him. And on the occasions he’s left the tunnels completely to get away from the kids, there’d always been some League man who wanted to talk to him. In light of Barsad’s warning, however, it all suddenly seems far less like friendliness and more like watchfulness. Like a leash.

John grimaces. Continuing on that train of thought isn’t going to lead anywhere constructive. Not right now, anyway. As a distraction, he sticks a hand into his pocket and pulls out the small, sealed messages. The topmost message is addressed to a C. Daly. The address is just north of Ackerman Park, a region of East Park Side that John remembers as echoing with the wail of car alarms every night. When he arrives at the address, however, he doesn’t find the expected skyscraper or high-rise apartment building. Instead, what he finds is a construction site, dirty and plebeian, girded off by temporary chain link fences.

There’s a worker standing just outside, smoking. He glances over at John's approach. “Can I help you with something, kid?”

“Uh— yeah,” John says. He belatedly remembering the phrase Jade had told him. “I have a message for Mr. Daly, from Henri Ducard?” He holds up the envelope.

The construction worker quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't seem particularly surprised. He takes one last drag of his cigarette then tosses the butt away. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “You’re looking for Carl. Come with me.”

John follows him through the chain link fence, to the portable building that's most likely the foreman's office.

"Wait here," the worker tells him. He knocks on the door then walks in without waiting for a response.

John tucks his hands into his pockets and glances around. The construction site is... weirdly quiet. Empty. No sounds of jack hammering, drilling, or anything John usually associates with construction sites. John has done his fair share of construction jobs, and even in the unlikely event of everyone taking a lunch break at the same time, the work site is too quiet. There isn't even the sound of casual conversation. After a second, longer look around, however, John finally spots a lone worker standing off to the side, pumping the contents of two barrels into a bucket. The sickly-sweet scent of motor oil, overlaid by something chemical-sharp, wafts toward John. He frowns, a vague feeling of wrongness creeping over him. Just what kind of construction site _is_ this?

John edges toward the worker, trying to peer at the barrels—

The door to the foreman’s office swings open. John spins back around. A clean cut, neatly dressed man stands in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Daly?” John asks after a beat.

“That’s me.”

John fumbles in his pocket and hands over the envelope. Daly takes it, tears the envelope open, and reads the message, right there in the doorway. He nods to himself, then looks up at John. “I have a reply for your boss,” he says, voice and expression mild. He takes a step back into his office, beckoning John to follow.

Inside, the office is a semi-cluttered mess. It's the first sign of normalcy since John's set foot on the site, although the normalcy is somewhat ruined by the fact the construction worker who'd led John inside is sprawled in the one seat opposite the desk, feet propped up against the edge of the table, playing Angry Birds on his phone.

“Get your goddamn feet off my table, Mitch,” Daly says as he sits down in the cheap looking office chair behind his desk. “And call Bode, tell him it’s time for him to take the truck out.”

Mitch-the-construction-worker drops his feet from the table, seemingly aggrieved over having to quit his game, and clomps out of the office without another word.

“I don’t suppose I’ll get a reply from your boss some time today?” Daly asks without doesn’t even looking up. He grabs a notepad, pulls a pen from his front pocket, and starts scrawling out a message.

“I… don’t know?” John says.

Daly shrugs. “Makes sense if I don’t, I suppose.” He smirks a little. “Given the day and all.”

John frowns. Any reply he could make, however, is abruptly drowned out by the loud rumble of a truck starting up. It's the first bit of construction site noise that John's heard. He glances out the window, curious, just in time to see one of the workers dragging the fence gate open for a dark green cement truck to trundle out onto the road. _Broucek Cement_ is stencilled on the door.

“Right,” Daly says.

John looks back. Daly holds out another sealed envelope to him, along with a folded note on top - a delivery receipt, John realises after a moment. He takes them wordlessly, then waits, just in case Daly wants to add anything else, but Daly simply goes back to his documents, paying John no mind. He doesn’t look up when John leaves.

Back outside, in the once again weirdly empty work site, John stares thoughtfully at the barrels he'd been looking at earlier. They’re unattended now, so he doesn’t hesitate to walk over to take a closer look. The dark barrels are unlabelled, but up close, the scent is unmistakably motor oil. And the white barrels are— he doesn’t know. Poly-something-something - the label is heavily crusted with residue, obscuring most of the lettering. But the label isn’t what holds his attention.

John gazes blankly at the bright orange, explosive hazard sticker, mind whirring. He’s had work site OH&S training - he understands _that_ symbol well enough. And while it isn't exactly rare for construction sites to hold potentially explosive materials, _this_ construction site is—

“Did you need something else?”

John whirls around, heart hammering. Daly is standing on the rickety steps of the office, arms crossed, eyeing him suspiciously.

John shakes his head. “No,” he says, stepping back from the barrels. “No, I’m good.”

 

* * *

 

 _Don't jump to conclusions,_ John tells himself, as he marches down Hudson Street, toward the second delivery address in Central Heights. _Don't jump to conclusions_ yet, _anyway. Check out the other place first._

He's less than a block away from the delivery site when the sharp wail of police sirens cuts through the air. John comes to an abrupt stop, mind whirring. He pulls the second envelope out of his pocket hurriedly; checks the delivery address again and compares it to his mental map of Gotham. _Corner of Bodoni and Sparrow Streets,_ the address reads. That's just south of City Hall. Which, in turn, is one block over from the Gotham Stock Exchange.

For a minute, John simply stands there, frozen - caught between the instinctive urge to get the fuck away from wherever the cops are heading and the desire to find out what’s going on.

There’s another police siren wail, followed by another, and another. Three squad cars streak past him, jolting him out of indecision.

John shoves the envelope back into his pocket and starts running.

 

* * *

 

Gawking at spectacle is the unofficial past time of Gotham. By the time John nears the stock exchange building, a sizable crowd has already formed, held back by a police cordon and a bevy of uniformed officers, all bellowing at the crowd to get back. Beyond the cordon, the stock exchange building is ringed by dozens and dozens of squad cars - it looks like the entirety of the GPD has rolled out.

John dodges past two uniformed officers carrying crowd control barriers and slips in amongst the crowd. He taps the shoulder of the short, dark haired woman in front of him. “Hey, sorry— do you know what’s going on?”

“Shooting inside the stock exchange,” she replies, with the gossipy jadedness of a Gotham native.

John’s gut clenches. “Was anyone killed?”

The woman shrugs. “No clue,” she says. “But this is gonna be big.” She points up at the roof of a nearby building.

John glances up at the roof of the building opposite the stock exchange; spots the telltale sign of sniper rifles peeking past the edge of the roof. The sick feeling in the pit of John’s stomach grows.

The uniformed officers step forward then, past the cordon. “Ladies and gentlemen,” one officer calls, “we have a situation. For your own safety, you need to get off the street. Move back, take shelter in nearby buildings, and stay there until an officer lets you know it’s safe to come back out.”

John sucks in a sharp breath. He’s heard the cops say that before. And, judging by the sudden ripple of anxiety that washes through the crowd, everyone else has, too.

“So much for Gotham’s peace time,” the dark haired woman says.

John glances at her. Before he can reply, a commotion from behind cuts him off. John turns around. There’s a truck parked at the junction of Taylor and Standard, the driver leaning out the window and arguing with a uniformed officer.

John stares.

It’s the same truck he’d seen leaving the construction site at East Park Side; he can just make out the ‘Broucek’ of _Broucek Cement Co._ printed on the door.

“—whole drum full of concrete I gotta transport,” the driver is saying. “If it goes bad, it’s gonna on my head—”

“Look, buddy, we’ve got a situation here, okay?” The cop cuts in, unsympathetic. “So back that truck up and—”

“Back it up _where?_ ” The driver gestures at the squad cars parked haphazardly alongside his truck. “There’s no room for me to turn—”

“I don’t care if you have to drive in reverse all the way down the damn street, just—”

There’s a loud _thunk_ from behind the truck. As John watches, eyes wide, the road barriers rise up and lock into place.

“ _Shit,_ ” he breathes.

All around him, he hears people expressing similar sentiments.

The GPD is shutting down the whole block, implementing official lockdown procedures, something that hasn’t happened in years.

The last time it had happened, John had been sixteen years old, and the Joker had been terrorising the city. A body-numbing chill spreads through John’s limbs at the thought, makes his fingers tingle strangely.

The sight of the barriers going up - or perhaps the memory of what the barriers represent - seems to spur everyone into motion. The crowd becomes a tide, pushing away from the stock exchange building, toward safety. The majority of people head for the closest available buildings, but a small trickle of people push on further, toward the Baxter Bar. John, still stunned, lets himself be borne along by the remaining crowd.

Inside the Baxter, it’s dead silent, save for the crisp, authoritative tones of a news anchor. There’s already a number of people clustered around the bar, gazing up at the wall mounted television with rapt attention; they glance over when the door swings open, then turn back quickly. The dozen or so people John had entered with join them, but John drifts away. He takes a seat toward the back of the bar as the bartender turns up the volume on the television.

“—deploying all of GNN’s resources to bring you the best coverage of events as they happen,” the news anchor is saying, expression grim. “GNN reporter, Vicki Vale, was on the scene at the time of the incident. Vicki— tell our viewers what you heard.”

John stares bleakly at the TV as Vicki Vale launches into her report. The details are sketchy, fragmented. There’s no information on fatalities, or even casualties.

 _That could be a good thing,_ John thinks. Then again, it could not. He gnaws on his thumbnail; thinks back on the fear and uncertain dread that had hung over the city when the Joker’s reign was at its peak.

 _That’s what you’re going to be a part of,_ he tells himself.

No.

It’s what he’s _already_ a part of, however tangentially, and his stomach churns at the thought.

“Hey,” someone at the bar says, cutting John’s thoughts short. “Turn the volume up. Something’s happening.”

The bartender obliges, and Vicki Vale’s polished tones fill the bar.

“—appear to be people emerging from the building,” Vale reports. “It’s unclear whether they’re hostages or the hostage takers themselves. However—” Vale pauses. “Sorry, there seems to be a— I’m not sure. One moment, please—”

There’s a slightly tinny purring noise coming from the TV. John tilts his head, frowning, trying to place it, but the sound is quickly drowned out by a louder, much more immediate roar.

It’s the sound of a motor - no, _several_ motors - growing closer by the second, John realises, eyes widening.

He leaps to his feet, bolts toward the front windows—

Right as a trio of motorbikes zip past - a huge, hulking figure riding the lead bike - and vault the barriers with ease.

“ _What the fuck,_ ” John says, with feeling. He isn’t the only one to say it.

In the wake of Bane and his men’s exit, the street outside becomes chaos. Hostages come pouring out of the stock exchange building; police officers and emergency personnel rush to meet them. Someone yells for the barriers to be lowered, as yet more officers scramble for their squad cars and swing them around in the direction Bane and his men had escaped.

Everyone in the bar gathers at the front windows, gawking once more, but John backs away.

He needs to get out, needs to get back to the tunnels before Bane does and finds him missing. That much is obvious. But _how?_

John looks around, mind working.

The front door is an obvious no-go. The bathrooms are located at basement level - John can just see the stairs leading down, and he sincerely doubts there are any exits he can sneak out of down _there_. However—

There _is_ a fire door, only six or so feet away from where he’s standing. John eyes it, searching for… yes. There it is. A small block of wood, wedged against the door frame, propping the fire door open to give people - smokers, employees - easy access to the alley behind the Baxter. It’s a blatant safety violation, but a relatively common one in Gotham. John sidles closer to the door. Once he’s a foot or so away, he glances back. No one is paying attention to him, their collective attention still fixed on the drama unfolding down the street. John seizes the chance. Keeping one eye on the rest of the bar, he leans his weight against the door, and slips out into the alleyway.

 

* * *

 

Getting away from downtown Gotham turns out to be easy, although it still takes far longer than John had hoped. In the aftermath of Bane’s escape, the streets surrounding the stock exchange had been a chaotic riot of EMTs, police officers, and—

 _And hostages,_ John tells himself. _Call them what they are._

With the barriers lowered and everyone focused on the hostages, it had taken John next to no effort to leave the block, unnoticed.

Still, it’s a long trek from Central Heights to China Basin. By the time John is back in more familiar surrounds - hopping over the abandoned platform of St. Andrews station and trotting down the tunnel - night has long since fallen over Gotham.

The lamps are few and far between down here - Barsad or Moreno had always carried a torch on supply runs - so John sticks close to the wall, relying primarily onbody memory to navigate the twists, turns, and occasional branching tunnels. He’s only ten feet away from the central chamber, however, when caution grips him again. The bright lights of the work lamps are like a beacon, calling to him, but John nevertheless comes to a dead halt.

The chamber and connecting tunnels are eerily silent. There’s no quiet chatter, no shuffling sounds of people moving about, and, most alarmingly, _no guards at the entrance_.

Panic stabs through John, interminable and awful, until common sense reasserts itself. If the cops had followed Bane down and flushed everyone out, they’d still be here. The tunnels would be crawling with uniformed cops, detectives, and crime scene techs. If the tunnels are quiet now, it’s because someone has ordered everyone to be quiet.

John starts forward again.

He creeps into the central chamber, straining his ears for any unusual sound, but all he can hear is the incessant drip of rain water from the storm drains. John glances up at Bane’s quarters. There aren’t any lights on, and John can’t detect any movement. Maybe John’s gotten away with this after all, and—

A hand shoots out and grabs him by the elbow.

It’s sheer force of will that stops John from yelping. He whirls around, already raising his free arm to strike—

Stops when he realises it’s Barsad gripping his arm.

Barsad gives him a mild look, but says nothing.

“Jesus,” John says, heart hammering. He lowers his arm. “Don’t you have anything better to do than jump out of shadows at me?”

“Perhaps,” Barsad says, letting go of John’s elbow. “But few things are as entertaining.”

John rolls his eyes. Barsad gives him a fleeting grin, then holds a hand out, expression expectant.

John stares at it blankly.

Barsad looks at him like he’s an idiot. “The girl, Jade,” he says. “I saw her return to the tunnels, but she did not come to me with message receipts.”

“Oh,” John says. Sheepish, he pulls the one receipt from his pocket and hands it over to Barsad.

Barsad raises an eyebrow. “I gave her two messages.”

“Uh, yeah.” John resists the urge to shuffle his feet. “I kind of got... distracted.”

Barsad’s eyebrow inches higher. “You somehow managed to be even less efficient than an adolescent,” he says. “Quite the achievement. Well done.”

Despite himself, John finds himself smiling. “Shut up.” He shoves Barsad lightly. “And speaking of adolescents— where are all the kids?”

Hell, where’s _everyone?_

“In the eastern tunnel,” Barsad says, waving toward said tunnel. He suddenly looks distinctly disgruntled. “Their voices were irritating me.”

John raises his eyebrows. “They _all_ stayed put this whole time?”

“I told them I would use them for target practice if they left— _what?_ ” Barsad says, when John socks him in the shoulder.

“Don’t threaten my kids,” John says, only half-joking. “And you can’t blame them for being rowdy - they’re _bored._ ”

“They can be bored far away from me,” Barsad mutters, as he turns away to sit on a low concrete barrier. John sits down beside him.

There’s a beat, and then—

“Bane was looking for you earlier,” Barsad says, not looking at John.

John’s stomach drops. “Why?”

Barsad shrugs.

“Where is he now?” John asks, looking at the stairs leading to Bane’s quarters.

“He was called away by Daggett not long after.”

John looks back at Barsad. “Who?”

“He’s a dog who believes himself to be a wolf.”

John’s brow furrows. “Yeah, that tells me absolutely nothing.”

“He’s a temporarily useful asset,” Barsad adds, which is hardly helpful.

After a few seconds, however, John’s memory flicks a card. Daggett as in Daggett Industries, Gotham’s _other_ major business conglomerate - Daggett Laboratories, Daggett Steel, and _Daggett Construction Corp._

 _Shit,_ John thinks. Just how long has the League been working in Gotham? Before he can press Barsad on it, Barsad holds up the message receipt again.

“If you did not deliver the second message,” he says, examining the paper, “where did you go? It could not have taken you all afternoon to make a single delivery.”

John hesitates.

 _This is Barsad,_ he tells himself. Barsad, who’d warned him about Bane - twice now - despite his loyalty to the League.

“...I went to the stock exchange,” John admits finally.

Barsad looks unsurprised. “And was that helpful?”

John frowns. “I don’t know,” he says quietly.

Barsad hums non-committally. “Well,” he says, “at least you are keeping your eyes open now.”

John nods, chewing on his lip. There’s a short lull, and then he asks abruptly, “Can I ask you something?”

“If I said no, it would hardly stop you.”

John elbows him half-heartedly. “Why’d you join the League?”

Barsad tilts his head. “I was an angry young man,” is his eventual reply.

“Was?” John says, a touch dry.

“I was an angry young man, and now I am an angry adult,” Barsad amends.

“What were you angry about?”

“Oh— many things.”

“Like?”

Barsad inspects the bullets slotted into his vest. “Like the fact there is more wealth in the world than there has ever been, at any point in history, and yet people still suffer.” He thumbs the pointed bullet noses like rosary beads. “I was— I _am_ angry that the world as we know it exists only because of the deaths and subjugation of millions, and yet people prefer to turn a blind eye.” His lips purse slightly. “And I am angry because I know my life would be infinitely easier if I did not care about any of this, and yet I do.”

John absorbs that for a minute. “And you think the League is the way to fix all that?”

“I know it is.”

“What about all the people you’ve killed? Isn’t that just contributing to all that death and subjugation that makes you so angry?”

“Our war is against the corrupt, and those who would support and shield them,” Barsad replies, so quickly that John knows this isn’t the first time he’s thought about this. “I have never killed an innocent.”

“And that makes it better?”

“Yes,” Barsad says simply.

John frowns. He opens his mouth to argue, but the sound of heavy footsteps - several of them, emanating from beyond the main chamber - interrupts him. Torch beams - at least a dozen of them - bounce off the wall opposite, bobbing in time with the footsteps. John tenses up reflexively until he realises the beams are pointed too low to be coming from cop flashlights.

Barsad glances over his shoulder, then gets to his feet. John follows suit, just as Bane’s enormous bulk clears the tunnel entrance. His expression is sharp and intent, like a bird of prey, and it falls almost immediately on John. The rest of the League men enter and fan out, talking loudly, filling the chamber with noise, but John scarcely notices them.

“You’re back,” John says inanely.

The corners of Bane’s eyes crinkle. “As are you,” he says.

That jolts John right out of his stupor.

Before he can open his mouth to spit out an excuse, however, Bane says, “I wish to speak with you.” He murmurs something to Barsad, not in English; Barsad replies in kind. Bane nods, then heads for his quarters, clearly expecting John to follow.

John glances at Barsad, questioning. Barsad, however, simply lifts a hand and gestures for John to follow.

By the time John arrives at the threshold, Bane is already sitting on the edge of his bed, watching the entrance. John dithers for a moment, pinned in place by the sharpness of Bane’s gaze, before stepping into his quarters proper. He takes the chair from Bane’s makeshift table rather than sit on the bed. If Bane thinks that’s odd, given the past few weeks, he doesn’t comment. Just watches John, grey eyes unreadable.

There’s no sound, save for the ever-present rush of water and the mechanical hiss of Bane’s breathing. The silence between them stretches, grows thin— and breaks.

“It looks like you made a clean getaway,” John says. He gives Bane a tentative half-smile, trying to mask his wariness. “Guess it was stupid of me to worry after all.”

The set of Bane’s shoulders eases infinitesimally, although he continues eyeing John. “McGarrity, Petrov, and Imad were all captured,” he says. “So perhaps your caution was not altogether unwarranted.”

“Oh,” John says. “Shit. That—” He stops. That what? That sucks? That sounds far too casual. That’s awful? Not really. There’s nothing he can say that would sound genuine, because he’s _relieved_. Maybe one of Bane’s men will talk. Maybe the GPD will shut this whole thing down before anything worse happens, and—

“It is of no great concern,” Bane says. “All three of them would rather die than betray the League.”

“Great,” John says weakly. Regrets it instantly when Bane gets that probing look in his eyes again. John looks away, out past the railings, at the water gushing from the storm drains.

“You left the tunnels,” Bane says, into the silence.

John tries not to wince. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

What to say? John wonders. Lie? Tell the truth? Something in between? “You never said I couldn’t,” he says finally.

“Our original agreement, when you first came here—”

“Was that I wouldn’t go to the cops,” John says quickly, holding up a finger. “You never said I couldn’t leave the tunnels on my own.”

“The meaning was implied.”

“You didn’t _actually_ say it, though,” John says, and for a moment, it’s like he’s sixteen again, stubbornly arguing with one of the St. Swithin’s staff about a loophole in the rules.

Christ, that feels like a lifetime ago.

Bane huffs, although John can’t tell whether it’s in irritation or amusement. “Technically correct,” he says. “Nevertheless, it is not an answer to my question.”

John keeps quiet, considering his options carefully. If he says nothing, Bane will suspect John doesn’t trust him. Then again, if he tells the truth, Bane will _know_ John doesn’t trust him, and—

“Perhaps I should rephrase the question,” Bane says, conversational. “ _Where_ did you go after you left the tunnels?”

 _Why do you care?_ John almost asks, before deciding that’s just needlessly aggressive. “I went downtown.”

Just like Barsad, Bane looks unsurprised. “And what did you see?”

“Not much,” John hedges. “A lot of people hanging around. A lot of emergency responders.” _You with hostages._

“Nothing else?”

“No. Why?”

The corners of Bane’s eyes crinkle deeply. His expression is strangely sly, bordering mischievous. “I saw the Batman,” he says.

John stares at him, brow furrowed. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Does it a few more times. “You—” He shakes his head. “You mean you saw one of those Batman wannabes? Or you saw Bruce Wayne at the stock exchange? He’s finally come out of hiding?”

“No.” Bane shakes his head, still amused. “Not at the stock exchange. It was no imposter. It was the Batman. He chased my men down, and he is the reason they were captured.”

 _Holy shit,_ John thinks. Batman is back. Not an imposter, not a fake. _Batman._ Something very much like excitement blooms in his chest, born from the seed of his former adulation; John stuffs it down ruthlessly.

Alongside the excitement, however, an idea sparks.

“If Batman is back,” John says, doing his best to erase the hope in his voice, “this will change things.”

“Perhaps.” Bane sits back, arms folded across his chest, seemingly unconcerned.

John shakes his head. “No, it _will_. I don’t think you realise how much of a big deal Batman is to Gotham.” He gets up and sits down on the end of Bane’s bed, like the proximity can help impress upon Bane how monumental this is. “If he’s really back, and you launch this revolution... if Batman opposes it, a whole bunch of people will oppose it, too.”

“Are you giving me fair warning, or attempting to dissuade me?” Bane asks, with tolerant amusement. He reaches out and runs his fingers through John’s hair.

“I don’t know,” John says honestly. That wins him a surprised look. “All I know is that a lot of people still believe in Batman, even after he took the fall for Harvey Dent.” His mouth twists briefly at the memory of Gordon’s letter.

“And are you one of those believers?”

John frowns. He looks down at the blanket and slowly smooths out a wrinkle with his finger. “I don’t know,” he says again.

There’s a short silence.

“You idolised him,” Bane says. It’s a statement, not a question. He continues running his fingers through John’s hair, slow and soothing.

John snorts. “Of course I did,” he says. “He was _Batman_. The only people who didn’t idolise him were cops who thought he made them look bad, and old people whose opinions I didn’t give a shit about anyway.” He tips his head, not quite able to stop himself from nuzzling Bane’s hand. “Back then...” he says, thoughtful, “when Batman was around, the attitude in Gotham was like— I don’t even know if I can describe it. It was like ‘what would Jesus do?’ except, you know, replace Jesus with Batman.” He laughs a little. “People were hopeful. We had someone to believe in.”

“And when he betrayed you - betrayed all Gotham - did you idolise him still?”

John’s brow furrows. “What’re you talking about?”

“Was it not a betrayal?” Bane asks, mild. “For Wayne to build himself up as Gotham’s defender, only to later abandon it?”

 _Yes,_ John thinks. But... “It’s pretty dumb to depend on one guy to fix a whole city.”

“And yet you did,” Bane says, without apparent reproach. “Even the police force depended upon him. That was Wayne’s folly, was it not? Rather than encouraging Gotham to change on its own, he made an entire city dependent upon him.”

“That wasn’t his fault, though,” John protests, even as a sliver of uncertainty works its way beneath his skin. “That was ours.”

“But Wayne _permitted_ that dependence,” Bane says. “He welcomed it.” Seeing John’s doubt, he adds, “When faced with Dent’s crimes, he and Gordon colluded to conceal the truth. They did not trust the people of Gotham to take charge of their own destiny, and so they paved the way for hundreds to be unjustly incarcerated. Those are not the actions of men who had faith in their city.”

He’s right. John can’t deny that he’s right. But—“You and the League are going to force a revolution on Gotham. How’s that any different?”

“We have spoken of this. You provided the solution.”

“Me?” John says, startled.

“Yes,” Bane says, regarding John fondly. “You once said that the people of Gotham should be the ones to change it. And so they shall. The League will be the catalyst for change, but the people will decide the city’s course. _That_ is the difference between us and Wayne.”

John blinks, at a loss for words. “You—” _you actually listened,_ he almost says. Bane had actually _listened_ , and he’d valued John’s opinion enough to incorporate it into his plans. Something akin to pride swells in John’s chest— right until he remembers the terrified faces of Bane’s hostages.

John looks down, pride collapsing into ash.

There’s a pause, and then Bane touches John’s chin, tipping his face up. John meets his eyes reluctantly.

“This doesn’t please you?” Bane asks.

“It’s just— it’s kind of hard to shake the feeling that this definitely _isn’t_ what Batman would do,” John says. It’s the easiest thing to admit.

Bane laughs dryly. “Wayne was a flawed idol,” he says. “You will surpass him, when you help bring about lasting change to Gotham.”

“Right,” John says, trying to ignore the embarrassing flash of pride at Bane’s words. “I’m gonna surpass Bruce Wayne. Sure.”

“You shall,” Bane says, confident. The hand at John’s chin slides down - strokes along his neck, over his shoulder; feather-light touches that lull John slightly, even as his skin prickles and his breath catches in his throat. After half a minute, he sags against Bane, forehead pressed against Bane’s shoulder, wordlessly inviting more.

Bane makes a pleased sound. He runs his hand along John’s back, tracing the vertebrae carefully. Stops when he reaches the small of John’s back, fingers barely brushing against the curve of John’s ass. He seems wholly content to just touch John - he’s practically petting him - even though John can easily spot the outline of Bane’s cock against his pants, already half-hard. A shiver of arousal rushes down John’s spine - then another, and another, until his own dick is throbbing, in time with Bane’s petting.

Part of John wants to squirm. He wants to push back against Bane’s hands, arch against him, and get Bane grabbing at him properly— except the rest of him isn’t entirely comfortable with the thought of being grabbed.

“Barsad said you were looking for me earlier,” John murmurs, eyes still trained on the length of Bane’s cock.

“I was,” Bane says agreeably.

“Why?”

Amused noise from Bane. “I suspect you know why.”

John snorts. “Breaking the law gets you hot, huh?” He lifts his head from Bane’s shoulder, smiling crookedly.

When Bane simply chuckles, John finds himself relaxing enough to press back against Bane’s hand. He shifts a little, wriggles around until Bane’s palm is cradling the curve of his ass, then meets Bane’s eyes squarely - it’s about as close as John can get to an open offer.

Bane takes it. He tugs lightly, urging John closer, and John goes easily, straddling Bane’s lap. And even though John’s gotten used to Bane leaning over him - he can even have Bane hovering over him, body bracketing his entirely, without flinching or losing his erection - this is usually how they end up: John in Bane’s lap, legs spread wide; hands braced on Bane’s shoulders as Bane draws his cock out, then John’s, and grips them both with one huge hand. He starts jacking slowly - takes his cues from the little twitches of John’s hips and his hitching breaths - until they’re both leaking, and John _is_ squirming, arousal pushing him out of his ambivalence.

John tightens his grip on Bane's shoulders, tightens his legs - scrabbling for purchase as he rolls his hips, fucking into Bane’s hand mindlessly. The head of his cock slips wetly against Bane’s on each upstroke - sends jagged bolts of pleasure through him that leave him breathless, head spinning. John presses closer, presses his forehead against Bane’s, panting. He can feel his orgasm building - a low, diffuse ache in his balls, in his groin, growing steadily stronger, and John _thrusts_ —

Right as Bane pulls his hand away.

John makes a thoughtless, needy sound of protest. His last, ill-timed thrust means his cock slides against Bane's belly, leaving a slick streak of pre-come - still pleasurable, but far less intense than the tightness of Bane's fist.

“A moment,” Bane says. “Patience.”

“ _You_ be patient when you’re just about to come,” John says, a little wildly.

That gets a quiet laugh from Bane. He runs his fingers through John’s hair again, through the fringe that John hasn't bothered to cut lately, even with the increased free time. Then Bane hooks his fingers in the waistband of John's jeans and tugs.

John gets it then. He rises up onto his knees as Bane keeps tugging, then has to wriggle back onto his ass, legs half in the air, for Bane pulls his pants off entirely. It probably looks fucking ridiculous from an outsider's perspective, and it strikes John then just how _stupid_ sex must look, sometimes. He snickers helplessly.

Bane raises an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing,” John says, waving a hand. “I wasn’t—” _I wasn’t laughing at you._ “It’s just... you ever thought about how _dumb_ sex is?”

“The thought has crossed my mind on occasion,” Bane says, amused.

He urges John back into his lap properly, their cocks trapped between their bellies. However, rather than wrapping a hand around their cocks again, or simply steadying John on his lap, Bane starts _guiding_ John, directing him into a slow, rough rhythm, hands firm on John’s hips.

John blinks, even as his cock jumps and the flush returns to his skin, arousal warming him against the chill in the air. This is— different. Bane has always been content to let John call the shots before - perfectly at ease with letting John decide when, and where, and how fast. And he’s not— he’s not forcing John now either, but still, this is different. It feels a little like Bane’s easing John into this, into the idea that Bane can _control_ him - can control John’s body, can control what happens, just a little - and things will still be… okay.

They’ve just settled into a rhythm - still slow and easy - when Bane moves a hand off John’s hip. His fingers skim across John’s ass, then drift down and _behind_ , and Bane carefully strokes a finger along the thin, sensitive strip of skin just behind John’s balls.

John freezes.

“I will not hurt you, John,” Bane says, barely louder than a murmur. He strokes John’s hip reassuringly with his other hand. “Remember that I will not hurt you.”

He keeps stroking behind his balls with light, careful touches, not moving further, but not pulling away either. Wraps his free arm around John’s waist and starts guiding his motions again, until John’s rocking Bane’s lap - grinding against him - hips rolling and twitching of their own accord, and it’s— _good_. It feels _good_ \- startling sparks of arousal as their cocks slide against one another, blending with the less intense pleasure of Bane stroking behind his balls.

Bane’s eyes are bright, intent, seemingly drinking in John’s every little twitch and noise. John stares back, caught by the intensity of it. They’re pressed together, chest to hip, and it’s almost too intimate, too _much_ , but John can’t get enough.

His arousal spirals up higher, tightens—

And then Bane increases the pressure of his fingers. Just a little. Doesn’t press his fingers in, but still it does _something,_ because John’s cock jumps, his body jerks like a livewire, and he comes in a fierce, heady rush.

Bane snaps his hips upward, almost bucking John off his lap. He groans, low and desperate, body going tense. The arm around John’s waist tightens, and then Bane tips his head back, panting harshly as he comes.

John goes limp, sprawling against Bane and listening to their slowing breaths as he waits for his brain to come back online. But as it does, it becomes increasingly difficult to brush off the feel of Bane’s fingers, still lightly stroking the cleft of his ass, or the weight of Bane’s arm against him, trapping him—

“I—” John says, heartbeat beginning to trip hammer in his chest again, “I need you to stop. Right now.”

Bane stills immediately, hands falling away.

John pushes away, gets space between them. He closes his eyes and takes several deep, calming breaths until the roar of white noise in his brain dies down.

When he opens his eyes, Bane is watching him solemnly, but thankfully without pity.

“Was that too much?” Bane asks.

“No,” John says automatically. He rubs his face. “Well... maybe. I don’t know.”

“Then I owe you an apology.”

“No,” John says again, more firmly. “No, you don’t. Just—” he gestures vaguely. “Maybe let go a little sooner next time?”

Bane tilts his head, a slight smile touching his eyes at the mention of ‘next time’. He is, John thinks, remarkably easy to please sometimes. The thought makes him smile, his earlier panic fading away completely.

“Something amuses you?” Bane asks.

John shakes his head, smile widening into a grin. “Nah. Just… thinking stupid thoughts.” He clears his throat and gestures toward the stairs. “I guess... I should go. Check on the kids and stuff. I’ve been gone all day. Barsad was saying the kids were driving him insane.”

Bane nods agreeably. “Very well. Until next time, then,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling.


	22. Chapter 22

“Wow,” Jade says, the next morning. “Big group meeting time. Very serious.” She leans against the tunnel wall beside John, looking out over the assembled group of kids. “Did someone use all the hot water again?”

John’s mouth twitches up into a half-hearted smile. “If only.”

“You okay, boss man?” Jade says, squinting.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look— you know.” Jade gestures at her face. “Like you’re trying to compete with Barsad for sleepy eyes.”

John snorts and swats at her - she dodges, snickering - then scrubs at his face. In truth, he’d staggered back from Bane’s quarters and crashed out for barely an hour before snapping awake again, the suspicion-verging-on-realisation that he’d been distracted - successfully - flooding his body with adrenaline and chasing off sleep.

“Did you get everything I asked you to?” he says, as Jade straightens up.

“Oh!” Jade says. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.” She roots around beneath her cot, then returns with a map and a pack of markers. John takes them from her, nodding in thanks. “What’s this all about?”

“You’re about to find out.” John tucks the map and markers under his arm, then claps his hands and raises his voice above the kids’ chatter. “Alright, guys, shut up for a minute.” He surveys their faces as he waits for the last of them to fall silent. A handful of them look nervous (John makes a mental note to find out what they’ve been up to), but most simply seem bored or sleepy.

John glances at the tunnel mouth. No one is moving around outside - the work lamps were only switched on half an hour ago - and he and the kids are gathered at the very back of the tunnel.

“Okay, so I’m sure you all know I left the tunnels yesterday.” John holds up his hand before the predictable torrent of questions can start up. “I’ll explain why later. First I need something from all of you.” He kneels down and unfolds the map, smoothing it out against the cool concrete. The kids cluster around, puzzled and mildly curious now. “I want to know where you’ve all been delivering your messages.” John uncaps a marker and points at Jade. “You first. Every place you can remember.”

 

* * *

 

More than thirty minutes later, John is starting to doubt the logic of his plan.

The map is now a multi-coloured mess, crowded with markings - blue circles for construction sites, black for offices and residential buildings, red for dead letter drops, and green question marks for locations the kids aren’t sure about - but John can’t see any sort of pattern emerging from the noise. Hell, he isn’t even sure there _is_ a pattern now.

“Okay,” John says, as Jalil wonders out loud whether the construction site he visited was on Monte Street or a few streets over, “you keep thinking on that. I’m just gonna— take a minute.” He stands and stretches, grimacing as his spine pops unpleasantly, then looks down.

From this height, the map looks less like a map and more like a shitty Magic Eye puzzle. There’d been an oversupply of those books at St. Swithin’s, courtesy of some donor who’d misjudged the level of interest teenage boys had in 3D illusions. John had flipped through all the books (save for those defaced with drawings of improbably sized dicks and hairy balls), during one particularly frigid winter, and the trick, he’d learned, was to stop concentrating on the foreground. It was only when he halted his brain’s conscious search for an outline - any hint, any clue to the real shape - that he was able to see what had been there all along.

John lets his gaze unfocus. He stares at the still-crisp lines of the street map beneath the markings, until everything dissolves into a fuzzy smear of colours.

Outside, somewhere beyond the tunnel, the pulsating rattle of a jackhammer and the whine of drills start up.

There are distinct patches of red, green, and black, but the majority of the map is snaked through with blue. Construction sites, everywhere. Even more than John is used to with Gotham’s ever-expanding, ever-rising skyline. He takes a deep breath. The acrid scent of motor oil intermingled with unknown chemicals fills his nose, still sharp in his olfactory memory, and—

His perspective of the map shifts. Shifts again. Between one blink and the next, the pattern emerges.

 _Rings,_ John thinks, as the sounds of hammering and drilling rise to deafening levels, frenetic and unceasing.

A rough ring around Ackerman Park. A ring around China Basin - around the very area they’re occupying in the tunnels. And an enormous ring around the entirety of Gotham, with a mark on every bridge and tunnel into the city.

Or every bridge and tunnel _out_ of the city.

John’s body goes cold.


End file.
